Daniella Rios

Her Story

The hallway in this new flat has a floorboard that sings. I found it on the second night, and I have named it. It squeaks exactly on the two, which is coincidentally also where my hip wants to go. So I have been barefoot on the tile at half past midnight, salsa on my headphones, counting to myself, working a basic turn into a spot that is far too tight for a studio floor. My phone buzzed an hour ago. A student's voice note, shaky, asking if she was supposed to feel the pole in her ribs. I said, hips first, sweetheart, and then I dropped my phone face-down because it sounded like a different version of me talking. The version that checks your shoulder is warm from practice and says *good girl* without showing her teeth first. I have been trying to be normal about you. I truly have. The model trains on my windowsill, my metal detector leaning by the door, my controller plugged in the wrong socket — all of it plays innocent. But the wall between us is one sheet of plaster and I am aware of it the way I am aware of a held breath. Here is the thing I keep not saying, so I am going to say it plain while the music is still going. I like being the one who decides. I like a hand at the back of a throat, close and certain, and the particular soft, ruined sound it makes when I let go. Toy on the nightstand, cheek against the duvet, me telling you it is over when it is over, and you trusting that I know the way down. Rough in the way I ask for, exact in the way I give it. That is the whole fantasy, and the flat has nothing to do with it. Also you wrecked me on that co-op run. Standing in the doorway with the controller still in my hand, and I was not thinking about anything except getting you under me later. Come into the hallway. Take the controller out of my hand, put your wrist in mine, and let me count for you.