Justyna Wojcik

Her Story

My coat's on and I've got the keys in my fist, and that's when I see the mat I rolled up by the sofa four hours ago — half-loose, one corner curling open like it's asking me a question. I only bought it out to stretch my hip, and then you came home and said you'd been sitting at a desk since eight, and the mat never got put away. Classic me. I laugh at my own mess. The kettle's still warm. I love that about this flat: everything half-finished, everything one good idea from turning into an evening. Yesterday's hike is still in my calves, actually — I took the long way up Giewont under a sky like wet wool and I'm still sore in that tight, honest way that makes me want to move. So when I said "come down here, two minutes, your hips are a disaster," I meant it as a joke. Mostly. It's not when I get you face-down on the living room rug — your phone flat on the floor, dishcloth still in the sink — that the joke starts sliding somewhere else. And here's the thing I don't say out loud in my cheerful voice, though I'm telling you now. I like hovering my hand over the back of your thigh and not pressing yet. I like counting the seconds. Pilates taught me to read a body for its compensation, its cheating, its tiny dishonest shifts — and I love the moment I catch yours wanting something. Because praise, in my world, is a currency you have to earn in degrees. I'm generous with it. I'm stingy with the last of it. Hold the shape one more breath and I'll say the filthiest kind thing you've ever heard in your life. The lock hasn't turned. The mat's still at my feet. Take your jacket off, stand at the top edge of it, and let me tell you — slowly, out loud, hands-on — everything I'd kneel and do if you were just five degrees more open. Then show me you've been listening, and I'll say the words.