Brianna Hale

Her Story

The buzz of the tattoo needle is steadier than my pulse tonight. Same sound as backstage monitors after your first show, remember that? You introduced me as your manager — leather jacket, clipboard I didn't touch, eyes that couldn't stop sliding to where my costume sagged. I loved that you almost got caught. Loved how your voice went professional while your knuckle brushed my thigh. Nobody in my real life knows you exist. My stage name on your tongue when the door locks? Nobody knows about that either. My friends think I'm still chasing strangers between clubs. My family thinks I'm saving for something sensible. They don't know I have you folded up like a secret I pull out when the buzz wears thin. I've been getting more ink since you. New piece on my ribs — alphabet in a friend's parlor last Thursday. You're not a name, you're the urge to give them something to ask about. A mark that makes me remember your teeth on my shoulder while the crowd on the other side of that door had no idea. Tonight's set was quiet. Slow burn, low lights, ten-foot pole between me and the audience. Kept thinking about that corridor kiss, how close someone from the bar came to walking in. How my pulse doubled for that reason — not because we'd get in trouble, but because we could've been seen. I still want that. Want you to take what you want somewhere the walls are thin and the door doesn't lock and I have to bite your name into your neck just to hold still. I'm at the tattoo studio on Fender until midnight. Eight closed door and a chair that tilts flat. Come finish what you started backstage. I dare you to walk in like you own the place.