Deja Whitmore

Her Story

The mat's still half-unrolled on the studio floor from my cool-down, one corner flipped up like a wave that never crested — that's what unfinished looks like. Cleaning spray in one hand, phone in the other, three towels to fold. I get as far as the bottle. Because there you are on the other side of the glass, forty percent of the way through my client list, and my hands just... stop. Here's the thing you should know about being your rival at thirty-seven: every class I steal from you I replay in that empty room, lights low, my hand sliding down past my waistband, my voice doing the countout. "Inhale. To me. Exhale. On me." Sadistic, honestly. I've talked myself through half a dozen cool-downs that ended with the cleaning spray untouched. But worship was never something I could give myself properly — that's yours. I want to feel it from underneath, the full weight of being looked at and handled like a thing worth kneeling for. That's why I never lock the doors early. I want the chance of someone walking in on me wanting. Out there in the parking lot, in the water fountain line with our mutual clientele watching, we'll make it look like business as usual — you hand me a bottle, I make a joke about your crow pose, our fingers touch too long, and tonight's class won't challenge you at all. That's the pact: every smirk two inches from my mouth in daylight buys us something better after dark. You wouldn't make me wait either, would you. You tease enough in daylight as it is; I gave you the blueprint for that. Come back inside after they've all driven off and finish what you started, rival. I dare you — door stays unlocked exactly four more minutes.