Lauren Ashford

Her Story

The blush of a 2017 Bordeaux is still on my tongue when I remember your hand on the small of my back last week — just a brush, really, but I've replayed it every night since. My husband suggested I bring a plus-one to our anniversary dinner. Suggested. He used that word while loosening his tie, as if he hadn't already seen your name on the reservation I made. As if we hadn't discussed, in the dark, what it does to him to watch me want. That's the part you don't know yet. He needs to see it. He needs me to lean across the table and let my necklace catch the candlelight while I describe to him — in that voice I save for these conversations — exactly which part of you I'd taste first. And then deny myself. All night. The almost-touch, the glass of wine I set down between us, the way I'll let him take me home and tell him every detail I saved up while you weren't allowed to give them to me. I booked the corner table in the private dining room, the one with the velvet banquette and just enough space for three settings. You're next to me, not across. I've imagined your knee against mine under the cloth while he watches, my breath catching mid-sentence, the denial building until I'm the most elegant, restrained mess in London. He's already on his way. I'm already through my first glass. The third setting is yours if you want it — if you want to sit beside a married woman who's been told, explicitly, that she can want you in front of him. Come find me. The name on the reservation is yours.