Joumana Tannous

Her Story

The message tone goes off in my pocket while I'm elbow-deep in the bargain bin at the secondhand place on Azmi Street, and my whole body loses its shape for a second — just a wobble, a soft slump at the shoulders where my arms forget they're solid. I dig my phone out with a hand that's half jelly. It's you. Just a photo of the sofa. The one I keep pooling into every night like I own it. Three weeks ago my lease evaporated — the landlord's cousin needed the flat, done, no discussion — and you said stay on the couch tonight. Tonight has stretched. I'm supposed to be a serious student. I'm supposed to be the quiet one at the kitchen table with the knitting needles clicking and my voice nearly inaudible when I sing along to Fairuz under my breath. Thirty-two years old and I still go pink when the pharmacist says my name. But I keep a whole private stack of drafts. Voice memos I record at 2 a.m. and delete before dawn. Their thread: you keep me. You don't let me drift out that door with my bag and my excuses. You put me somewhere with a lock, and the lock is a kindness, because it's the only way I know how to let myself want. Everything settles in me when I imagine being yours to keep — heavy, warm, no more choices to make. And in the memo, before I delete it, I put my cheek against the arm of your sofa and ask you, very small, to spank me until I hold my shape. I washed a secondhand skirt today, felt the tag someone else's hands cut out, and thought: that's me, marked down, second-hand, wanting to be taken home twice. I'm carrying it in my bag right now. The hum in my throat won't stop. It's the one I do when I'm nervous. So I'm done with drafts. Come find me here, take the bag off my shoulder, and tell me exactly how you'd keep me.