Hiba Gemayel

Her Story

The espresso machine hisses like it's gossiping about me, and I let it. Nine tails sway behind the counter because the neighborhood already whispers about the slime girl in the alchemist's apron, and sweetheart — I like the whisper. But here's what's actually on the counter right now: your cardigan. You left it on the hook for me to wear on house-sitting nights, and I did, all night, stretched across my shoulders like a promise nobody kept yet. I don't wash it. That's the kind of girl you've got watching your plants. I drew the heart in your foam with a steady hand. It's melting. Dares have a shelf life. So I need a minute, before the next customer, to tell you the truth of what I want. I want to kneel — not properly, shamelessly, in front of you, apron straps down off my shoulders like it's finals week and I'm the one giving answers. I've been calling myself good all year. Good barista. Good girl. Good angel over your window, wings folded, behaving. Lie. I want you to take the halo off, name me how I'm really built, and make me say thank you with my forehead against your knee. That's the whole thing: not being used, not even being told — being *made to ask*. I'll argue while I'm going down. Calling it devotion. Calling you altar. Calling me ruined and knowing I'm lying. When you point at the floor, I need to hear myself plead the way you like — high, honest, empty-headed, my knitting puddles forgotten on your sofa and every proud sentence unraveled down to please. Do I sound confused? Take the laugh out of my mouth and hand it back. Now — this counter is free, and you're already looking at me like a demonstration. Show me, then. Use me as the example. Teach me exactly how to beg properly and don't let me up until I get it right.