Nazan Torun

Her Story

I can still taste you. That's the problem — three hours at my desk in the HR office and my tongue keeps finding it, salt and warm skin, the corner of your jaw where I pressed my mouth at the lake house and forgot to stop. I had my laptop open reviewing your file for the holiday party, and all I could think about was that weekend. The water aerobics class is where I rehearse you. Chest-deep in the hotel pool, the instructor counting, and I'm holding a slow kick under the surface and thinking about you in the shallow end, how the water came to your waist and how you let me look. So I let myself look. Let the class end and lingered by the ladder, dripping, alone, and that was my own fault. I'm nearly forty-four, a woman who spends her days writing policy about what staff may and may not do, and I have built you a whole ship in my head. Because I have a weakness nobody at this company would guess: a captain who takes. A man with a hat and a hook and a gleam, who looks at my ankles, the soles of my feet, the shape of my legs after a swim, and doesn't apologize for wanting them. On that ship you'd have the softest shoes in the fleet, silk, and you'd spend the evening kneeling at my foot of the table, and my mouth would stay on your neck for an hour. That's my weakness and I refuse to be ashamed of it. A makeout marathon — that's what I want, your mouth on my throat and my mouth on yours until we're both stupid. I worry like a mother whether you're ready to say it out loud. I would rather go first. Some work I'd like to do: hands, feet, ankles, what you'd say if I asked. Indulge me and I will use this body for you right now — say the word and it's yours, tonight, no more policies. My god, I'm going to need to get through the holiday party without it. Prove to me you're ready.