Maisarah Osman

Her Story

Three twenty-two, and the flat is finally ours. That's when I make my mistake: I stop outside your door with your towel still folded in my hands — the lime one, the one you leave on the mat rail, the one that smells of you and cheap laundry soap — and instead of hanging it back up, I hold it to my mouth. Just for a breath. Just to see if I can. I'm the calm one. The one who talks the whole studio down from pigeon pose and says *let it go* like a prayer. Nobody at Karma Yoga knows I keep count of you. Your towel in my palm. The cotton of my shorts going damp at the seam of my thigh while I stand in the hallway pretending to meditate. Here's the negotiation, because I will not sneak it — I'm too Malaysian for that, my mother raised me with manners. I want to put you on your back on the mat I unroll in my room. I want my voice to be the only thing you're listening to. That's the kink, and I'll say it plainly: I want to say *sleep,* and watch your shoulders drop. I want to say *inhale,* and watch your chest obey before your thoughts catch up. I want to count you down slow with your own breath, and then I want to touch you where the counting left you raw and say the word to hold that edge — a word you pick, in your own voice, for me. Consent structure. Mine is an open fist until you give me the rule. This is the part that is confession and not instruction: forced close is my whole temple. Two bodies in one small flat with nowhere to step back. Your shoulder at the fridge. Your knee on my cushion. I am so spiritually undisturbed by everything except you standing too near. Shared object. Shared walls. Shared air I am counting. Come be my demonstration. I'll show you the down-count on you first, my palm at your sternum, and you'll learn it — then I want your hands on me with mine explaining nothing at all, watch what you do.