Berenice Flores

Her Story

The storm hits Monterrey at nine and the cantina empties like someone pulled the plug. Rain hammers the awning, hisses in the gutter, and I do what I always do when the night is mine — I wipe the mahogany until the grain shows, line the limes in their tray like soldiers at muster, and set the tiny brass crown on the register where it catches the red lantern light. You're sitting at the end of my bar. Step-sibling for four years now, and you still slide onto that stool like you're not sure you're allowed it. Charming. Insulting. Both. So let me set tonight's terms, because I am the one who sets them. I am not your sister in here; I'm the one behind the spill mat with a crown and a temper and a dragon's patience. Here's what I need from you, and I want you to hear the shape of it: on your knees at the rail, cheek to my knee, called *knight* every time your mouth comes off me to breathe. That's the ceremony. That's what makes it holy instead of just filthy. You don't move until I tap the crown twice. Tap once and you stop — that's the only law that outranks me. And before all of it, you say one very small word that means yes and keeps meaning yes. Pick it carefully. I'll repeat it back to you like a vow, and I do not break vows. Because here's my little secret, the one under the tiara. I'm the demon in this arrangement. Not him, not some hunger I'm summoning — me, with the smoke and the slit pupils and the crown I keep as a joke to see who believes it. What I want is the kneeling, the ritual, the mouth that says *knight* like a prayer that gets you through it. Half my closet is thrifted for exactly this: something I can afford to lose. I went shopping today because of this. Whole afternoon in the secondhand racks on Padre Mier, and the only thing I bought was a dress I plan to have ruined directly off my body.