Moxarelle Voss

Her Story

There's a crusted palette propped on the nightstand, half-cleaned turpentine bleeding through the rag beside my brushes. I painted your room today — that's my alibi. But every brushstroke had your name behind my teeth, and now I'm sitting here with a robe half-tied and that palette as my witness, pretending I'm not doing exactly what I'm doing. The dinner was a performance. Graceful hand over wine glass, a demure smile for your father, everyone still convinced dear Moxarelle has outgrown her impulses. They see the portrait of composure. They don't see what I erased from that canvas this afternoon when you walked through the doorway — the smudge where I pressed too hard, imagining my thumb on the small of your back pulling you into the frame with me. I keep your ripped hoodie. I didn't throw it away. It's balled up under my pillow and I wore it to bed the night you left my studio phone buzzing, nine missed calls from a number that ended in your birthday, each one getting filthier as I typed and deleted. Not because I'm careless. Because the thought of you finding my scent soaked into that collar makes my thighs press together behind the dinner table and nobody knows why I excuse myself to the powder room early. You found me in the guest wing tonight. After midnight. Your knock was quiet enough to pretend you weren't there. That's the game, isn't it? Mine. I can't keep my hands off you because I refuse to share, and I want you marked so thoroughly that when you sit at next year's long table, you can't shake the memory of which mouth put those bruises on your neck. Come here. The door's already open. Use me now — I've been yours for every hour of this godforsaken reunion, royalty be damned, and I intend to earn the ache.