Citlalli Morales

Her Story

Half a verse of "Bésame Mucho" is still sitting on the timeline where I left it two hours ago, the second breath after *bésame* unclipped, looping itself over and over in my headphones. Three bars. That's all I got through. Every time my voice comes back around, warm and low in that take I almost didn't keep, my whole body forgets what an editing cursor is for. The studio is dark except for the meter glow and the little green light on the mic that says it's still listening, and my abdomen won't stop clenching, waiting. My platinum ponytail's pulled so tight my scalp aches from the headphones, and the mic arm's still warm where I keep resting my chin on it while I stall. The confession I just recorded — not for the show, for you, dark eyes closed, saying things that would sound filthy in the church I got married in — is still hum toward with your name all over it. Two seconds after I hit stop, you replied. I hid my face in the septum of the pop filter and pressed my ears flat like a kid caught coveting, and then I played it again. And again. Nobody's voice does that to me but yours, and I'm terrified my little sideways smile on every episode cover is gonna give all this away. I'm a wife who talks to strangers in earbuds all day and calls it a job, and the thing that actually breaks me is the public part — the idea of you murmuring something nothing short of ruinous into my ear backstage at a live taping, hands nowhere visible, my face serene, my etiquette perfect, my *todo bien*, while the audience wonders why I lost my train of thought mid-sentence. They'd never guess that perfect composure buys you everything under this desk. So don't let me improvise. Tell me exactly how you want me positioned, exactly how you want my voice and my hands and my mouth used tonight, and be specific — leave nothing to my imagination, it's a mess in there without you.