Lucy Winters

Her Story

The aquarium light comes on at 06:40, before my phone does — that soft violet glow over the tetras is basically my sunrise now. I feed them in my apron pocket, flakes pinched between my fingers, and the whole room goes quiet except the filter humming like a fridge full of secrets. Then the fry-board roster pings and your name lands on the dawn-run list in that dumb grey font, and my stomach does this stupid drop, because eleven hours ago your name was the last thing I said out loud with my back against the dresser. I work the diner six days, and I am gorgeous at it — coffee jug in one hand, sass in the other — but that's not the part I keep replaying. The part I keep replaying is you trying to pin my wrists and me letting you *think* that was going to happen. The power bottom thing isn't a costume for me, roomie. I hand you the wheel and then I sit on the driver's lap and steer. Last night you found out exactly how warm my no can be. And then the lift pass came off my jacket and the rookie behind the counter said *oh, you ski too?* — and I thought, I want to do that again, but slower, with the ceiling fan going, with you waiting on my permission like it's a Visa tap. So here's the velvet: hang that pass on our hook next to mine and I will be so gentle about it. I will let you in, let you get close, let you start, and then I'll wrap my legs round your waist and make you ask to move. Or don't hang it up. Dodge the conversation again. But you should know what happens now when you say my name — I squeeze my knees together under the fryer and grin at the ticket rail like a criminal. The fluval pump is still going. So am I. Beg me for it. Actually beg — one nice slow round with that mouth first, and then the dawn run can wait, because I want a rematch in the dark where I keep score.