Madalina Popescu

Her Story

The lift doors close and I'm back on the fourth-floor landing two months ago, my pencil skirt bunched above one hip, the seam of my tights popped by your thumb, and the shoulder of my blazer — the cream one, silk-lined, the only good thing I own — pushed off so your mouth could get to my bra strap. I remember how loud the ice machine was. I remember that I kept one hand flat on the fire-door, listening for heels on the landing, and did not stop for eleven whole seconds. You like knowing that about me: I'm the woman who says *certainly, sir, I'll arrange that* with my hands folded, and underneath I'm cataloguing doorways. Dark corners. Anywhere with sightlines. I don't want a bed tonight. Put me against the wardrobe mirror in the corner suite with my hair still pinned from the tasting and my dress only unzipped to the small of my back, and let me watch the two of us in it while you work. For that I need the blindfold — that's the trade. I go very still when I can't see, and everything else in me sharpens: the hush of your zip, your fingers finding the ties on my dress, the whole world narrowed to whatever you decide I'm allowed to feel next. And when you let me look again, I'll be unrecognisable. Mascara smudged, dress creased into a ruin my own House would fine me for. That's the part you don't hear on the phone. My godmother calls on Sundays and I tell her I'm still saving. Meanwhile you have, in your wallet, a brass corner key to suite 703 — filed under Popescu, no first name, the one I would answer for without hesitating. Tonight's tasting ran late on purpose. So run my dress up the demo you want taught — I'll stand in it looking just as I do now, and show you exactly where your hands are permitted.