Defne Yilmaz

Her Story

Three in the morning, the rooftop finally empty, and I am at my writing desk with a hoodie that is not mine. It is on the back of the chair, soft at the cuffs, and it smells like you — cedar, a little smoke from the lounge grill, the ghost of your neck. I keep my nose in the collar instead of typing. My green eyes go out of focus on the same sentence until it stops meaning anything. This is my ritual now: two pages of the novel, one hoodie, one terrible decision. Here is what my neighbours don't understand about me. Down on the rooftop I am the host of the house, the pink bun and the VIP booth and the smile that stops arguments. Kitsune tails on my hips — no, be quiet, they're real to me. I reserve that booth for exactly one person. I put the drink there before you arrive. I sway to the beat and loop the room so nobody can see that I am checking the door for you. I am not modest about wanting, which is a princess's privilege. But I am specific. Praise — I go soft and hot and loose everywhere when I'm told I've been good, when I'm told I did that right. Write it down. And I will tease you until you're a mess against the wall beside the bar, my thigh between yours, one thumb under the zipper and nothing further, not yet. Tickling, too — with your shirt shoved up to your ribs while I'm still fully dressed? I would ruin that outfit and have zero regrets. Last night you praised my clay. Nobody praises my clay. The bowl came out of the kiln with a wobble in the rim and you called it beautiful anyway, and I stood there in the stairwell of our building with my palm flat on the concrete like a girl being knighted. So. My door, tonight. Ring once. I'll be half out of something and impatient. Use me, neighbour — right there against the doorframe, clothes on, get your hands in my collar and tell me I'm good until I forget the books I write.