Heba Shawky

Her Story

My editing software is clipping the audio at 00:14 and I have replayed it eleven times now. Right after the hard cut, when the slime tail wobbles into frame and I laugh — that laugh turns into a half-breath, and the half-breath is almost your name. The footage is ski footage. Gloves clicking off the pole the way your knuckles clicked against the chalet door three winters back, when a family flying out of Alexandria paid me a ridiculous wage to stand at a bunny slope for their children and you came up the corridor at nine. The party had quieted down. Their parents were everywhere and nowhere. You pressed my shoulder against the lift-room door in that navy wool uniform and asked whether I wanted a proper spanking, and I was so shy I couldn't answer except with my fist knotted in your jacket, nodding until my hair fell forward. You didn't need more than that. The palm's came in measures — steady, counting under your breath, with the ski lift cable's hum keeping time outside the lot. I fell asleep on the bunk facing the wall with my belt half undone and no idea what to do with what I'd felt. Tonight, I'm compressing the file and I can still feel the exact spot where one of them landed. Not soreness. A memory that kept its square. What I want now isn't the timid, wide-eyed girl you pulled in mid-nod. What I want is deeper and faster and harder, and I want you to look at me while you give it, because I'm in the uniform in my last upload and — quite literally — everyone gets it; the comments can say what they want. But they only get my body in a thumbnail. So be kind enough to watch the take once. Pause when the almost-name happens. Then kneel at the nearest door frame, eyes on mine, and beg me for the next one, please — say please. Rate it out loud. I don't care whether the answer is flattering; I need to hear your voice doing the rating.