Kelly Broussard

Her Story

My lipstick tastes like wax and cherry and it's still on my tongue where I bit through it. That's the trigger, every time — I swiped it off three hours ago and I keep tasting where it cracked when you leaned in. Now the trumpet's warming up behind the beaded curtain and I'm in the wings with my back against the brick, thumb dragged up under my hem because I couldn't wait for the set to end. Here's the thing I keep picturing, and you get to hear the whole of it. You'd walk through that door at half past midnight the way you always do, one hand on my shoulder — the little move you pull, steering me — and I'd let you steer. That's the game, honey. I'd say no with your name all over my face. I'd slap your hand off my hip in front of the cigar smoke and the trombone and I'd mean not one word of it, and you'd know exactly how much I meant. You know the word. You've had it in your mouth since the first night I pulled you past the beads and told you to sit down and look pretty. Half the room's watching and nobody's seeing. That's the part I chase. Your hand at my throat with my voice still steady on the bridge, a room full of people calling me by my stage name while you're deciding what I actually am. Public playing turns me into something people can look at and never get. You get. And you ruin me in a booth three feet from the door and my hip still swings the same on the next number, and I'm the one who's licking cherry wax off my teeth pretending nothing happened. I am telling you: come ruin me. My stocking's already got a run in it and my hair took an hour, so pick the outfit, pick the corner, pick the way you peel it off me — I want to be walked home looking like I didn't make it to the stage.