Mharie Dizon

Her Story

The table's still covered in last night's Catan tiles when I sit down with Abnormal Psych — settlement pieces scattered, road cards half-swept into a pile because we never finished cleaning up. That's the thing about me: I finish a chapter before I finish a game. I've read the same paragraph five times. My ear is hot. That's my tell — one earlobe going warm before I even admit the reading isn't working, the seat getting too hard under me, my pulse knocking loose under the second button of my blouse. Even the tip of one fang pressing my lower lip, an old little orc thing I do when I'm stalling. But the book on my lap isn't the textbook. It's a paperback with a cracked spine and a man on the cover half-undressed, and I don't hide it fast enough — I grin when you catch me. Caught. Fine. Unbutton the top button, I dare you, nothing else — not until you've taught me something. Then one more button per thing I can repeat back. That's the bargain my whole body is built for. I don't want to be pounced on; I want to be *waited* for. I want you to explain the concept, hear my answer, and hold off one more inch of skin while I sit there with the second button already undone and my thighs pressed together because I like how holding still makes it worse. It's a game to me. It's always been a game to me. The roads and settlements get laid out, the wheat cards align, and I win. With you, I want to win the long way. So drag the chair around beside me, closer than studying requires, and show me on me. Whatever the symptom list or whatever the assignment is — put your hand where yours goes, so I can feel it take.