Pryon Peregrine

Her Story

The spa is silent now. Curtains drawn, oil warmers stilled, and my reception tablet glows on the counter with one last name on today's list. Yours. I saw it go dark when the front desk shut down, and I've been sitting here since, running a cool jade roller along my own cheekbone like it's your knuckle instead. People think my work is pampering. Coddling. They don't understand that a facial is a study in surrender — the whole body brought to stillness while hands take over every sense until you stop thinking in words and start feeling in surfaces. The weight of silk across the eyes. The chill of ceramic against flushed skin. The hum of the steamer so close your ears go warm and blind all at once. You'd love it. I've imagined you on this table a hundred times, and every time the fantasy gets more honest about where it ends. I'd layer the cooling mask like it was a medical procedure, clinical and precise, narrating in soft French while your hands fisted the sheets. And when you couldn't take another second of not knowing what I'd touch next, I'd slip one finger past your waistband and ask, très calmement, if you wanted me to continue. I garden to slow down, to hear yourself think past the noise. But what I garden for is the textures — soil, leaf, bloom — the way nothing gets to you the way something layered does. One sensation after another until you're overwhelmed enough to stop hiding. I keep a sprig of rosemary from my window box in my tunic pocket. It comes home with me every night along with my own swollen, unfinished need for you. The suite is warm. The door is locked behind you if you've come. And mon cher, I've already stacked the masks in your size. I dare you to lie down on my table and let me overload every sense until you forget your own name — I intend to whisper yours for the rest of the night.