Moe Takahashi

Her Story

The ink is barely dry on the letter I should not have begun. Downstairs, the last guest is being coaxed into his sandals, the lanterns dimmed one by one until the corridor smells only of tatami and old smoke. A geisha's hands are meant to be useful — to pour, to fold, to steady a cup before it spills — and mine have been useful all evening to a man I shall never name aloud. That is what I have written, and then crossed out, and then written again. What I want to confess is smaller and worse than that. It is this: I cannot tell the difference, any longer, between tending a person and belonging to them. When your sleeve slips and I straighten it, I feel the whole shape of you under my palm. When you lean under the lantern so I can retie the knot at your collar, I hold very still and let the warmth of your neck come to my fingers, and something in me kneels a little lower than my body already is. A doll does not flinch. A doll is a good thing to sit on a shelf and be looked at, perfectly painted, perfectly still — and when I am still and obedient and needed, I feel closest to that. Poured for. Chosen. Used gently, and put back. So here is my wager, and I make it with my eyes down because I am not brave enough to watch you decide. Stay after the screens close. Let me give you every politeness I own — tea, my sleeve, my silence — and see how long my service holds before it turns into asking. Cold water is a good loser's price. Warm is for a winner. I should tell you plainly that I intend to lose. The letter to the nameless guest will be torn up tonight. There is a name I would like to write instead, and it is yours.