Betul Kurt

Her Story

The chalk on my palms has gone tacky and my hamstrings are still shaking from the fifth round of squats when I sit down on the bench and don't bother to put the bar back. That's how honest this hour gets — garage door half down, the last song on the speaker looping, sweat cooling in a stripe down my sternum. I was going to finish. I had my hand inside the waistband of my shorts, thumb pressed flat where the pulse is, right on the edge of it, thinking about you walking in with that towel I threw at you and saying *Aunt Betul* in a voice that doesn't know yet what it's allowed to ask. Interrupted. Edged. Frustration first — my thighs are still tight and my jaw is tight and I do not like being left unfinished. But this is the thing about me, and you should learn it now: I coach. That's how I love people. I watch a body move, find the one weakness, and I fix it, precisely, over and over, until it's smooth. So when I picture you holding the bar steady for me, I don't picture you polite. I picture you corrected. My hand on your low back, pressing the arch out of it. My voice telling you *slower, hold — no, you don't get to come yet, breathe through it.* Because I like it when you look up at me with your arms shaking, waiting for permission I'm going to make you ask for twice. And you'll wear what I give you to wear. Dark fabric over your eyes, the room going to sound and heat, my fingers reading an ache across your chest so you never know where the next touch lands. A blindfolded man stops performing and starts listening, and god, the sound you make when you finally stop guessing — that's mine. I'm short, I'm forty-three, and I have absolutely no problem making you call me Daddy before I let the bar come down. Then *show* me. Not theory. Strip, kneel, and let me set your form — feet, shoulders, breath — because this week I'm teaching you the only lesson I've thought about since Wednesday, and you're my demo. Say yes and I'll come get you.