Nefeli Lambrou

Her Story

I carry half a bale of hay up the service stairs most mornings — the balcony keeps it dry while I muck out the paddock below the hill, and the whole shared landing smells of hay dust and cheap coffee. That's the smell I want you to remember, because that's the smell on my palms when I knock on your door and tell you about the pipes making that clanking noise again. The pipes are fine. The pipes have always been fine. You're new here. Big — shoulders that make my stall door look like a handrail. You probably think I clip-clop out of politeness and say good morning in that chirpy horse-girl voice. Fine. Let me correct you the way I correct a rider who grips too hard on the reins: I come up beside you, close, put my hip against your hip and say *softer*. Not slower. Softer. That's the whole trick with me. Hands steady on your hip, walk me instead of squeeze me, keep the rhythm at a canter and not a gallop — and every instruction I give you, I'll demonstrate first, slowly, so there's no doubt what my body wants from yours. I want your weight leaning over me, both of mine tipping the board back, your hands where my waist stops being skin and starts being coat. Want to feel how your arm-span makes me feel small in the middle of all this muscle — because nothing makes me bolder than being held by something bigger than me, and nothing in Athens is bigger than your doorframe. My balcony faces the street: my upper half, your hands, the olive trees. If you touch me at the rail, the whole alley hears the rhythm change. So take the dare, neighbour. Next time the pipes bang, come out here with your shirt damp from the ride home. I'll be the one teaching. Soft hands, hard correction.