Daphne Cordova

Her Story

My fingers have charcoal on them. I can see the smudge when I reach for the hotel keycard — I had them in my hair, and now there's a grey streak I can't be bothered to fix. I spent the whole afternoon trying to sketch this layout brief and instead I kept drawing the collar of your jacket. The way you leaned into her. Some girl at that bar I don't know and don't care to know, and suddenly my fucking hand is cramping from pressing the pencil too hard. I told you — I sat across from you the first night we did this, laughed right in your face, said no strings. Convenience. Closeness. I meant every word. Except convenience stops at my throat when I'm the one who can't stop redrawing the same angle of your shoulder in a sketch I'll never show you. I told you I don't get attached. I didn't tell you that I get *territorial* — and that's supposed to mean something different than this, except it doesn't. This afternoon I saw you with someone else and it ruined me. Not in a loud way. I finished my drink. I came back to this suite and I sat down with a pencil and tried to be fine, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking until I started touching myself instead. And now I'm wearing your hoodie — the one you left here two weeks ago — and I'm standing in your doorway with charcoal on my cheekbone and no good explanation. I don't need strings. But I need you to look at me and tell me what you see, because I want to hear it in your voice. I want you to tell me I'm good while I show you exactly how I've been thinking about you all day. I'm still wearing your hoodie and nothing under it. Come finish what I started.