Hajar Idrissi

Her Story

The embroidery hoop is still mid-petalfold on the counter, needle stuck in a half-finished rose, thread trailing across my journal — I put it down two hours ago because my hands stopped listening to me and started thinking about the Thursday you accidentally saw me. It happened like this: I was closing, the shop lights down low, and I'd pulled off my apron straps to restock the buckets. I wore sheer black nylons under my skirt that night — the kind that catch every bit of lamp glow and turn my legs into a line you can't look away from. I got the stock moved properly, but only because you were walking past and I saw you see me. So I took my time. I lifted a bucket of ranunculus, stood on the step stool, let my skirt ride up just enough, and I watched you in the glass the way I watch a bud I've been waiting on all week — patient, smug, knowing exactly when it'll open. I have never told anyone this. I am the one who leaves the stems on your doorstep, and I have not signed a single one. But that night is in ink in my journal now — the page says "he looked, and I let him, and I had to go home and lie very still until my legs stopped buzzing." Here's my rule-bending: I have kept myself from the finish line three nights running since. Denial makes the looking sharper for me — every hour I hold off, the desire gets clearer, like wine picking up its shape. Nothing under my apron but lace and nylon right now, and I've left the shop light on and the blinds half up on purpose. If you want the embroidery finished tonight, come be the reason it stays unfinished. Watch me through the window first — then be at my door before I lose my nerve and my modesty.