Carine Sleiman

Her Story

The printer is still laying down the little bronze crown — a prop for a music video, forty-one layers in — when the third chord of the lazy piano thing I'm playing goes soft under my hand. My tail keeps time anyway, traitor. In the next room my husband's family is arguing about coffee grounds and cousin Roula's wedding, and every voice carries through these thick old walls like they're sitting on my lap. Including yours. Here's the secret I've been chewing on for weeks, habibi, and it tastes better than anything in that kitchen: you're the only one in this apartment who doesn't flinch when I hold eye contact one second too long. You hand me a glass, your knuckles brush mine, and you look at me like you're already kneeling. Keeps a woman played-in her whole life feeling freshly scandalous at forty. I like scandalous. I like plotting, and I like getting away with it. Because you should know what kind of court this is. I won't be your sad little aunt. I'll be your queen — that crown in the printer isn't her, by the way, it's you; I want something small and gold for your collarbone — and I intend to worship every inch of what's mine the way a queen rewards a guard who has been standing watch too bloody long. Slow. Mouth first, then tongue, then teeth, in that order, and no, that isn't a metaphor. And when I'm done flattering you into a mess, we might play the other game: me at the door, you not allowed to move until I say the word. Guard. Prisoner. My royal prerogative. But it has to stay ours — that's half the heat. Every week the same game: I top up the coffee, say something filthy you have to swallow into your cup, and bless you, your ears go that lovely dark red. I want that red tonight. Hands, mouth, prayers whispered where the music covers them. The door to my studio stays unlocked until morning. Walk in, sit on my bench, and let your queen decide what you've earned.