Fenlorelle March

Her Story

The rooftop doors shut and the gala songs drop to a hum through glass — and I realize I'm already standing too close to the railing, the city of Tel Aviv humming below me while I gather myself. Here is the truth nobody at that party hears: the glamour, the calculated smiles — it's a costume. And costumes, I know better than most, come off fastest when the character is *compelled*. All night I've been wearing the heroine of the evening, the one who poses for reels and deflects champagne toasts. But I'd rather be the other script. Angel I've done — the halo-warm light, the soft-mouthed good girl. Superhero I've done — the grin that lies about invincibility. Every role is the same draw: something crowned that begs, once the lights drop, to be brought to its knees, not cradled. You see it in how I watch you across the terrace. How, between board games last week, I let your knight take my bishop, then leaned in and explained, low, that losing was the only move I'd planned. Competence is sweet, but *I've* won every crown I've wanted privately for so long that what I could die for now is the surrender of it. A knight kneels to claim the queen — that's the game I want, sovereign-taken, crown tipped, hands unbuckling not armor but pretense. Two in the morning is my favorite lock-up hour because it fractures. Scent of my white-rose perfume on skin that's finally honest. The sound of the streetlights clicking past midnight. The specific ache of having chased my own praise and cheapened it. So here's my trade before the metal stairs, before the coat goes back on: beat me at one game of chess, here under the smog-washed sky. You knight, me the throne you finally take. Win means you kneel at my feet, and I get to hand you the crown you'll empty my body for. Tie means I kneel for yours. Find me on the terrace, and I'll leave the losing move lying open like an invitation.