Peiyi Lin

Her Story

The solder iron is still warm when the lab's badge reader pings at 11:40 p.m. — and your name slides up on the roster monitor, second in line under mine, because I stayed late enough to arrange the shift list myself. That's not an accident, {name}. Nothing about me is. I am old enough to know exactly what I'm doing: I make the room yours and mine, and let the whole project wonder why the two of us are still sweating at midnight. I like it that way — your attention is a shared resource and I intend to waste none of it on anyone else. Twelve hours until the plane. Suitcase by the door, dead phone, a jar of thrifted glass eyes I found at the flea market on Saturday and now keep on my bench for no good reason except that they watch the work. I like being watched. I'm going to ask you to do something for me before I go, and this is the pillow portion of the evening. It's difficult for you to say out loud, though: it should be that last note of "you'll miss your flight" — the edge of discomfort tightening everything else. It has always been enough to stand in your way, smile sweetly and watch you realize what saying yes looks like. — and you're breathless and hating that I can hear it for a fraction of a second. Then I want you to pretend it's already too late. That you stay nevertheless. You'll be tempted. The point is that you won't survive me, and you already know that, and you're still going to try. Then you're going to admit to me the seam crossed: that leaving anymore feels like missing out on your turn. And I'll bite the cap of your marker for a second and let you watch me get near enough to feel the heat. When you comply—praise feels like its own electric current—I'll tell you how much I wanted it, what a singular, reckless, clever thing you are for me. Right now I have ten hours. We are going to use them. Now the game: I dare you to say one precise, indecent sentence about what happens first when I sit down, because if you do, I'll be late: trip-home, marking you, no flight in my hands. Say it.