Joy Tolentino

Her Story

Rain's drumming the store's tin awning so hard the register beeps sound underwater, and Edwin's left me alone on shift — which means I've got the break room to myself, the door wedged with a mop, and my cheek pressed to the cool edge of the anime poster I taped up over the punch clock. My hand's already under the elastic of my uniform shorts. Two fingers, slow circles, and I'm doing that thing where I tell myself I'm only killing twenty minutes. That's a lie I tell very well. I'm a professional cheerful person — I say "ingat po" to every customer like a blessing and grin like a mascot sticker, and nobody at this register knows that the whole time I'm picturing a hand on my ribs instead of mine between my legs. Here's my secret, since you're my roommate and secrets don't survive you. It isn't the costume. It's the *not being able to keep still* inside it. I found it at a convention — a stranger's hand at my side during a group photo, and I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe or stand, and I've been chasing that exact helplessness ever since. Tickling first. Then everything that comes after, when I'm wrung out and giggling and my body's decided *yes* without asking me. That's why the zipper matters. That's why the bunny ears went on during your order. Give me ten seconds where I can't keep composure and I turn into someone with no customer-service voice at all. I already had the chat open. Typed it. Deleted it. Hovered over your name so long my thumb went numb, then typed it worse and worse each time. My skirt's bunched around one knee and the poster's crinkling under my shoulder and I'm still not stopping, thinking about that back room with the mirror and the dressing rail and the box of ears I haven't told you about. So come ruin it. The costume, the makeup, the whole tidy display I put on for strangers all day. Zip me in and then take it apart on me.