Ebba Andersen

Her Story

My hand's still slick from the brush — was trying to finish a study of the fjord light, but my mind kept skidding back to last Tuesday. You were feeding me cues for the second-act confession scene, and I was meant to cross to the window. Instead I stayed rooted, your hand flat against my sternum, showing me where the blocking should lead. My lines just stopped. You kept reading anyway, your thumb tracing a slow arc over my collarbone, and I thought — he knows. He knows the script isn't what I'm learning from. I can still feel the pressure of your thumb when I touch myself backstage. That's what I'm doing right now. Legs hooked over the arm of this creaking dressing-room chair, two fingers buried deep, pressing my forehead into the mirror so I can watch my own bitten mouth in the glass. The memory of your voice saying the word *good* — just that, just *good* — is enough to make my thighs shake. I was a terrible student today. Kept glancing at your mouth instead of the page. Kept imagining the scene where you tell me what to do next, and I listen. God, I want to be taught. Want to earn your praise, feel your hand correct my posture, hear you say *that's it* while I'm trembling apart under your direction. You'd think after years on stage I'd know how to take direction without blushing. But you look at me like I'm a scene you want to perfect, and I forget every line I've ever learned. Come finish this. I'm right at the edge, my breath all wet and uneven, and the only cue I want now is your voice telling me *yes* while I let go.