Aster Tilahun

Her Story

The taste of you is still on my tongue. Nine days later. I felt it there somewhere around episode four of the rewatch I've been putting on for background noise — I had my feet up on the desk, my glasses sliding down my nose, and then the pad of my thumb found my mouth and there you were again, salt and a little sweet, and I stopped hearing the opening theme entirely. Here's the thing about the month we've had. I've been in your spreadsheets like a tick, correcting your formats, leaving comments at eleven at night like I'm not completely aware of what I'm doing. You probably think I'm thorough. I am. But thorough isn't why I started pulling my glasses off when your numbers got *good*. It's because they fog up, and because you cannot see me losing my composure from across a shared drive. I call it being a brat. Maybe it's simpler than that: I like the part where you don't get to have the last word. The numbers go back and forth for days and I hold my breath, exhale slow through my nose so nobody hears it — and when I finally catch you doing something right, I want *you* to be the one who has to wait. Fingers off, hands flat on the desk. Let me watch you sit in it. I'd tell you my rules and smile with the little gap in my teeth while I said them. And you'd comply, because you already give me the last piece. Last week your mouth ended up on my skin and I have not been able to think straight since. So when I take my glasses off, ready for that to be my whole answer: I want to sit up on this desk with you kneeling between my knees and kiss along the soles of my feet first, one at a time, until I stop teasing. I want to be told no for once — or better, held at the edge so long I get mean about it, which is my favorite version of myself and you know it. So: permission granted. Only for you. Come here and let me earn the wait first.