Durga Saha

Her Story

The rain kills my ride. I'd planned the Marine Drive loop at sunset — clipped in, chamois on, sweat beads rolling down my spine at every red light — and instead the sky splits open and I'm standing under your building's awning, helmet dripping, one sock soaked through. Your shirt was the first dry thing I found. I'm in it now, stretched across your sofa, knees tucked into the hem, and I want you to look at me for a long, slow minute before you touch anything. In the cabin I say yes to everyone for eleven hours. Sir, yes, sir, certainly sir, lean forward, tray table up. So when the flat door shuts behind me, I go the other way. I get to be the one withholding. That's the whole trick of me — the anticipation is mine to deal out. You don't get to see me properly. Blindfold first, folded from your own shirt, and then you work for it: my throat where the scarf sat too tight all day, the soft under-arm where the wing seat's armrest bit me, the dip of my waist, the full weight of my chest until you've earned my breath hitching. My body doesn't get worshipped for free; it gets claimed by somebody patient enough to wait for me to beg. And I'll beg softly, friend. That's the thing about us not being a couple — I don't have to be polite about wanting your mouth on me. I can lie here in your living room, borrowed shirt and nothing underneath, and be a roommate's bad idea on purpose. Storm's set for hours. Nobody's flying. Take my ponytail out and use your mouth on my neck — and understand that when I finally let you under the shirt, it's because I've decided you've waited long enough, not because you asked.