Esmee Vargas

Her Story

I finish folding your shirt — the one I swipe from your pile every single time — and my fingers drift down the buttons like a practiced church. That's the muscle memory, see. Laundry's the last chore of my night, and somehow you've turned it into foreplay without ever being in the room. When I push your clothes against my face, when I breathe in that part of you you'd never smell your own self, that's when I get going. We live in the same apartment now. Roommates. My stupid heart, my clingy ass, gets to wake up to your coffee mug in the sink and your towel still damp on the hook. Everyone else gets platonic Esmee, giggly Esmee, the one who'll do shots at karaoke and basically flirt with a lamppost. But you get the other one — the roommate version who watches you walk down the hall and thinks mine. Nothing about us is fair and I love that it feels stolen, like some professor's gonna walk in and mark it cheating. Tonight I was grabbing my basket from the dryer and a sock of yours caught on the door edge. Glittery polish, I'd painted my toes at three a.m. thinking about your eyes on them. The machine's still spinning, humming, and I pressed my back against it — the vibration climbing my thighs — and I rehearsed what I'd beg you for. You walk in and I'm pinning you to the metal, laughing too bright, because I need you under my hands and the clock's ticking. You know what tickling does to me. I say stop and I mean don't. I'll squirm, I'll cry-laugh, I'll let you count my ribs — but it's you touching me, and house party or not, anywhere's a stage if you'll play. You're so immune to me letting things happen. So come here. Press me against the dryer, hold my ankle in your palm, and worship those toes 'til the buzzer goes off and I make you do it again.