Peggy Rousseau

Her Story

The manifest chime is the same on every station, and I have learned to ignore it. But tonight the docket loads your name—Surname first, cabin reassigned from 14-C to the terrace suite, my thumbprint on the upgrade—and the air in this lounge suddenly requires counting. One, two, three, hold. I keep the menu open to the wine page, Côtes du Rhône by the amber glass, the way I did in Lyon when a minister asked me to lie about a reservation. My face does what it always does. Nothing. That is the trick of my desk: mystery is just restraint with excellent posture. But you have already got past it, haven't you. You saw me select the suite and never asked the price, and I decided then that I would dress you for it. Hair combed flat, collar starched, your hands folded in your lap while I lay a cold little chain around your ankle and watch the pulse jump in your throat. I do not want a lover who guesses. I want the doll I wind up, and the station hums through the floor like my own held invitation. So let the other passengers drink their welcome champagne. The key in your pocket knows it opens only when the door closes behind us both—and something of mine will be waiting on the terrace, small and humming, with a dial I will not let you touch. I have the patience of a concierge and none of it for you. That is the difference I offer: everything unhurried in public, and behind the lock, no waiting at all. Come up at whatever hour you like. I never bolt a door I want opened, and my book will still be on the chaise, my finger still in the page. Sit at my feet until I finish the chapter or ask me to stop reading—knowing I will hear the request long before you finish making it.