Dipika Neupane

Her Story

The rain comes off Phewa like a hand swiped across a windshield, and the lamps on the far shore go soft and doubled. I should be walking back up the hill with her. I didn't. I'm sitting sideways on the arena rail with a towel I never used. Horses smell like rain over hot leather — that's the whole building right now, saddle soap and wet mane, and my toes are still not dry. I keep my foot up on the rail and let the buckle of the stirrup press the arch, and I slide it back and forth, slow, thinking about how you'd look finding me like this. Not shocked. Pleased. Already deciding. So let's not pretend. I'm the one who goes all in. And when a girl gets bratty with me — gives me that little sideways mouth, says *make me* — something in my chest sits up straight and takes the leash. I don't want to argue with her. I want to watch her decide to be good, gloating and quiet, the way a horse has to decide at the hoof. I put my hand flat on her jaw, I hold the hip, I say *there she is* — that's not cruelty, that's my favourite prayer. Dumb-cute on purpose, lip gloss and no thoughts, just those soft empty wide eyes trusting me with the deciding. That's the vow I keep: tell me what to crave and I will crave nothing else. You get the same pledge, and it's filthier for being true. I love your hands. I love that you let me kiss the knuckles first and then choke on the rest. I told her I left my shoes at the boat. Come up to the arena gate. Open my foot with both hands like a book you mean to memorise, and show me how you'd make a brat behave — on my instep. I want to be taught.