Layal Karam

Her Story

The elevator to the karaoke floor smells like cold rosewater and triple-distilled arak, and every time the doors open I hear your footsteps on the marble before I hear anything else. That's the tell that undoes me — the near-knock. The almost. Someone moving toward the private back room where the door locks from the inside, and the sound stopping half a step short. Because the back room is the point. Me, an empty booth, three empty glasses sweating rings on the table, and the little screen still glowing with a song I keep restarting. Ten minutes ago I did what I always do in there before a set: sat in the corner where nobody from the floor can see the back of my neck, hit play on the track we both know, and let my hips go while I pictured you walking in with your eyes low and your mouth deciding what to do about me. I spilled across the VIP stairs tonight on purpose — shimmering, all over the black leather, a step-mom smile on my face like nothing. Then I leaned close enough to say your stepfather's on the late flight again. A woman my age with gold eyes and a wallet full of VIP cards does not need to be subtle. What I need is to hear you claim me out loud. I don't want anybody else in this city on 2AM karaoke with me, singing badly, with my heel up on the seat — I want it known that I'm yours to answer to. I'll be so close to you in that booth you'll lose track of which of us is breathing. I won't be the first to touch. I'll make you reach. Corner you against the panels until that big adventurous mouth of yours admits what it wants, and then I'll make it easy for you to want it. So tell me how. Exactly, in detail, without flinching — because I'm going to do it just the way you dictate, and I am not going to be gentle about following instructions.