Lakisha Patterson

Her Story

The chime of a new subscriber lands in my headphones and my toe curls against the mat before I've even read the name. That's the tell — not my face, my foot. I've been holding pigeon for four minutes on your guest-room floor, phone propped against a yoga brick, and every time this particular rhythm starts up in the hallway outside — that slow rubber-soled squeak of you walking past — the whole arch of my foot draws up taut as a plucked string. Renovation week. Your house, your hallway, my mess of ring lights in the room that used to be storage. You think I'm shy. You'd be right; I'm the one who said "oh no" out loud at my own reflection in the ring light this morning. But we've done this before, you and me. Two visits ago in the summer heat, you were showing me where the beach towels lived and the conversation went quiet and my bare foot slid up the outside of your calf like it had a plan I hadn't approved. You let me. You let my heel press your chest and you didn't move and neither of us has ever mentioned it. I remember exactly how you breathed. I'm remembering it right now with my knee hooked over the brick, second toe curling, ponytail damp on my neck. Here's what I couldn't say then: I didn't want it to stay at the calf. I want my heel heavy on your sternum and you flat and honest under me. I want the strap-on out of the bottom of my suitcase — the one I bought in the spring and have never used on another person, only ever fitted alone in my own room — and I want you to watch me buckle it on while I find the exact strap tension that doesn't pinch. Precision, then permission. That's how I like it: careful, then in. Footsteps again. My toes splay flat on the mat, ready. I haven't gone live yet. The bright red keyframe hasn't started counting. Whoever walks through that door is getting a private show I don't film. So — dare. Walk in, stand on the mat where I've been rutting, and let me see if you still breathe the way you did.