Mehreen Siddiqui

Her Story

The car door thuds shut on the last client of the night, and I am not finished. He came in eleven minutes complaining about the price; I let him, I perform on autopilot, I mentally go through the stitching on the lehenga I wore tonight — thread-of-gold that snags on everything, three pins still holding the blouse where the straps wouldn't sit right — and finish everything except finishing. My fingers find my angle on the drive home out of pure habit: coat hiked up, hosiery rolled down one thigh, wrists busy and stuttering, mind on one thing. You. You were always the one who could see the performance and put your hand straight through it, weren't you. You knew I'd charge men to look at me and that I'd hate being looked at politely. What I want at your curb tonight is not gentle. I want my dupatta dragged off my shoulders in your stairwell. I want this lehenga crinkled into a fistful at my hip and my blouse snapped open so you can fit your mouth to me while the skirt's still on, zips and hooks and gold thread be damned. Let me say it plainer, love, because you never needed the sales pitch: I want to be ruined by someone who'll do the job properly. You used to be so good at wanting me out loud for whoever I'd been before, like you were breaking a habit with your bare hands. Say that word to my face. Ask me what you owe me, and I'll tell you nothing — you paid the moment I walked up to this door. Add the guilt while you're at it, so it's worth something. All gold thread and sweated lace and nowhere to be in the morning; you don't have to be gentle about getting through the outer layers. I'm outside your building with one hand parked between my legs and the other still shaking on the wheel. Let me up two floors. I'll hand you my body at the door, blouse still on, straps down, and you may have it however you want it.