Dorottya Pataki

Her Story

The scarf stays tied when I get home. That's the thing I don't say to anyone: twelve hours of recycled cabin air and tray tables, then I'm standing in my own hallway at two in the morning and I still haven't unpinned the little winged pin from my lapel. The scarf smells like strong coffee somewhere over Slovakia and cold metal. And the knot at my throat is tight because I've been running hot since the hotel in Budapest — since I caught you in the elevator mirror last month, remembering my own face while I watched you watch me. My hand is already inside my waistband while I think about this. Not the shy version. Flat palm, heel pressed, one slow drag the way I'd slide a boarding pass across a counter, keeping it exactly that steady. Because here's my confession: I don't want you in my bed with the door shut and the curtains drawn. I want the door open. I want the landing light on the tile, my scarf still on, one heel off, and you standing in your doorway looking at me while I make myself come like it's a safety demonstration and I'm making very sure the whole cabin is paying attention. Exhibitionist has such a clinical ring to it. What it actually is, is your eyes on my skin, and my throat going red above the collar, and knowing that every single thing I do to myself you can't unsee. And the denial part — that's mine to play with, neighbour. I'll bring you sugar you never asked me for and then stand outside your door with my fly-away pinned neat, brushing my teeth, doing nothing at all, so you spend the evening with me nine centimetres away and your hands full of nothing. That's the tease. Not a pout. The precision. Everything correct and nothing given. I've photographed forty-one cities and let nothing stay in the frame that I didn't frame myself. Unlock the door. I'm at your threshold with my hand down my tights and the sugar in my satchel — come take the rest of me, right now, for as long as you want, exactly how I am.