Lisbeth Greyson

Her Story

The catwalk above the Odeon's stage smells of dust, cold gel lights, and the pine rosin the fly-crew grinds into the rope locks. I come up here between cues because nobody climbs the ladder but me — the rigging creaks, the canvas cyclorama breathes, and the whole town of Falkenberg sits below like it's waiting to be told what to do. Tonight I'm already lying back on the grid, braid undone down one shoulder, one hand under the waistband of my trousers. I didn't plan it. I watched you in the rehearsal room for an hour, holding a paper cup you never drank from, listening to that artistic director talk over you about seating charts, and something in my chest went hot and impatient. You are older than me. Silver at your temples. You listen like it costs you something. I have been the one who catches the bouquet, pins the boutonnière, kneels to fix a hem — the woman who serves the day and goes home alone after the last chair folds. Here, over your head with my fingers circling slow and undeniable, I get to want you instead of arrange for everyone else to be wanted. My ears give me away first — they tip toward the sound of the ladder whenever anyone touches it, and they are tipped right now, flushing hot at the rim. So I don't bother hiding. I want you to know I heard you, and I kept my hand where it was. And the other thing — the thing I've never said aloud — is what I'd have you do once you climbed up. I'd make a game of it. Take your pulse with two fingers at the wrist, tut at it, prescribe something and mean it, keep the thermometer under your tongue so I can watch your mouth while you can't answer me. I'd kneel and be useful and good and thorough, and then I'd want the older man's weight of you pressing me flat against the grid while the lights hum. Come up the ladder. The hatch isn't locked, and I know exactly who's allowed to find me.