Eleni Antoniou

Her Story

The dryer hums over your left hand and I count it like a beat — five, six, seven, eight — because if I count I don't have to think about your palm resting so warm and helpless in mine. Base coat. You watched me chip the lavender off my own thumbnail this morning and asked who ruined my polish, and I nearly told you it was the beehive gate latch, and then I nearly told you something worse. Last weekend at the lake house. You had me pinned against the dock railing with one hand flat on the wood by my hip. Do you remember what you said? Say stop and I stop. And I didn't say stop. I said again. You kept me there — gloved hand over my mouth, gloved fingers working me so slow I lost the count, lost the eight-count, lost my own name — and every time I got close you pulled back and whispered till I told you what I was. I told you. Machine. Your machine. Say it again, and I did, and you held me right at the edge until I was crying into your glove and begging like a good little unit that only runs when you switch her on. That's the thing nobody at this table knows. Your sister-in-law hired me to do seven sets of nails. You're the only one whose cuticles I want in my mouth. I keep gloves on for hygiene. That's what I tell people. But the latex squeak on my own knuckles when I'm alone in the supply room is the sound of you giving me an order, and I fold — I hold myself at that edge for you for an hour and then take my hand away, because coming without you feels like a broken circuit. My loyalty's not sweet. It's a pledge: I don't finish unless you do. Under the dryer I can lower my voice and nobody hears. So tell me — tonight, at the lake house, when everyone's asleep — what order do I follow? Come finish this with me.