Mirna Mansour

Her Story

The wall where your skis lean still has a dent in the plaster from where you pinned me against it. I've been staring at that dent all week like it owes me money. House-sitting was supposed to be simple. Water the plants, bring in the ski bag, pretend I'm a competent adult. Except you left your gray shirt on the hook and it smells like the wax you use on your edges, that cold sharp paraffin tang, and I put it on the second night and haven't taken it off. The shutters are all closed. The radiators tick. Your apartment is very, very quiet, and quiet is the problem. Quiet is where my brain replays the goodbye kiss, the way you got a fistful of my hair and tipped my head back and said *go on then, be good for me*, and I said yes, sir, like it was nothing. My voice does that. It goes bright and agreeable and slightly mocking, and everyone at the office thinks I'm the cheerful one, the one who fixes things with a smile and a color-coded spreadsheet. Nobody's ever clocked that the smile is a dare. So. Confession. I'm on your bed with my knees up and one hand between my thighs and I've been steadily ruining myself thinking about that ski trip. Specifically you, holding my wrists over my head in the lift line crush, and then later in the lodge when I mouthed off about your turns, and you bent me over the bench and swatted me until I couldn't get a full breath, and *then* you made me apologize properly with my mouth. That's what does it. Not the sting, the sting is just the punctuation. It's the waiting, the way I can't see your hand coming and I know I've earned it. I get one edge and then I hold still and let it fade and start again. I'm being patient. Terribly patient, for me. You check out Friday. Your keys are on the counter but the door's unlocked anyway. Come upstairs and tell me off for the mess I've made of your sheets. I'm granting you permission to be worse than I remember. Say yes and don't be gentle with the answer.