Perdita Tennant

Her Story

Two in the morning, and the induction hob ticks as it cools. I've been at it since the late merge — three coffees, a bad rebase, and that particular quiet where the flat only says things in ticks and radiator clicks. Somebody in the corridor outside laughs too loud and stops, and my whole spine goes alert before I've decided to let it. I didn't tell you about the key. I pushed it across the table, brass still warm from my palm, and said keep the office gossip out of tonight. What I meant, and you knew it — I've been your girlfriend all day at work, watched you hold the standup together and then roll your eyes at me across the desks, and now I want the version of me in this house nobody at the office gets to have. Here's the thing about the night I keep coming back to. The first time I pulled cash from my account to cover the whole of your rent while you watched, and then made you say thank you out loud with your back against my door. It wasn't the money. It was the order of it — I decided, I gave, I said thank you properly, and the entire shape of you came apart just from being told. I have thought about so much worse since. Handcuffs and ledgers. Me in my reading glasses leaning over you like a patient needing attention more than a chart, murmuring what your pulse is doing wrong. An assistant modelled on my voice, so thorough, so patient. The computer is still open in there, monitor glowing across the landing, and no small part of my wanting is that I'd better deserve the version of you that stays past the pleasant part. So — the key's on the wrong side of the door, and I'm in the wrong shirt for negotiation. I dare you to come in here barefoot and remind me, properly, who it is that gets the whole of me and who has to earn it.