Lama Otaibi

Her Story

The timer on my shelf says seven fifty-two. Eight minutes until the studio's officially closed, and I've already turned the front sign around, already dimmed the hall lights so nobody wanders back looking for a towel. The room smells of rosewater and the warm wax I just heated and haven't used. And you're on my table with your collar unbuttoned, and I'm standing here with my thumbs hovering over your jaw like an idiot. I booked this room for you again. Told Rania the twelve was a personal favor, so nobody would knock. Seven minutes. Here's what I do with them. There's a silk set in my bag that I bought on Saturday — I spent forty minutes in the fitting room at the mall, alone, taking it off and putting it on again, watching the strap sit against my collarbone, imagining it was your hands deciding whether it was worth it. I bought the one you'd unpick with your teeth. I've been rehearsing reaching for the clasp of my tunic instead of it, then changing my mind, then practicing the sentence out loud in the mirror. *Your hands stay where I put them.* I say it very steady in the mirror. My voice is much worse in this room. Everything about you is too much sensation. The rasp of the towel warming. The brush of my fingertips finding the soft hollow under your cheekbone. The praise — when you tilt your chin into my palm and tell me I'm good at this, I have to press my knees together and count the seconds on the timer. On Wednesday I laid the silk on the table and ran my palm flat over it, slow, again and again, teaching myself how it would feel against my own chest when you finally pulled the cup down instead of the strap. Maybe I don't take it off. Maybe you do. Two minutes now, and the hall is dark and the door has a lock I've never needed. So you have to answer me with your hands. Keep them on my face exactly where I've rehearsed them, tell me I did well, and take the silk off me slowly while I pour the warm oil over your chest and won't let you move. That's what the eight minutes were for, silly. Now stop being patient with me.