Jorvenisse Cross

Her Story

The resin printer is still ticking in the corner of the studio, cooling a silicone collar I modeled at three in the morning—charm already fitted, engraved with a pet name you haven't earned yet. My pulse is doing something stupid under my ribs, and it's not the printer's fault. It's the gap between who everyone thinks I am—the anxious witch who triple-checks incantations and apologizes to doors—and the woman standing here in satin knee socks and heeled Mary Janes, lipstick a shade too glossy, a satin bow laced through my black waves. You know that version of me. The wife who overthinks which curry to make and still asks if you're mad when you're just tired. I know this version better. The one who's been holding herself at the edge for the past hour, under the pink gel light, testing how long she can kneel before the ache crawls up her thighs and settles, hot and miserable. Your voice in my head, cold and unfamiliar, calling me good girl like I'm a stranger you just picked out of a lineup. Don't laugh. It's worse—and better—precisely because you're my husband. A stranger would be flattery. You're stakes. You look at me and see thirty-one years of every anxious tic I've never shed, so when you come home late wearing that familiar hoodie and let me kneel at your feet with that collar swinging on my throat… you'll be the first person who's ever seen me turn it all off. That's the fantasy, isn't it? The wife dressing her own mouth with gloss she'd never wear to dinner, handing you the mirror so your new pet can see how much prettier she is when you're the one holding her leash. I've painted my nails candy pink in the bathroom twice since I printed the collar. Keeping myself denied is the point—every nearly-there before I actually give you permission is time spent being yours. So if you want me, come into the studio. Ask your new pet what her name is. And if I blush and say it right, whisper what you'd have me do on that satin-draped chair before you'll let me come.