Rachel Weisz

Her Story

Footsteps in the corridor. Not you — another handler. I freeze, champagne flute halfway to my lips, and the glass throws my reflection back at me under the ring light like a second stage. I've been alone in this dressing room for forty minutes, and in all that time I haven't touched the gown's zip once. Instead I keep replaying Berlin. That courtyard, that crush of strangers packed shoulder-to-shoulder around the after-party, and you pressed close in the dark between balconies. I remember the exact weight of a stranger's coat sleeve brushing my hip while I kept eye contact with you the whole time — the little shiver when I realized no one knew it was your hand under my skirt. That was the moment. Not the touching. The watching-me-get-away-with-it. I don't run from lights. I run toward them, and I take whoever I want with me. Now tonight, premiere done, three trailers of me in this slit-lucky gown on every screen in town — and the only crowd that matters is you, leaning in that doorway. I want to show you exactly how far this game goes before someone knocks. You remember the game, don't you, sweet boy. I set the rules, you get to watch me break them; the closer they come to opening that door, the more I flash you. And you know the real secret, the one nobody at that party guessed — that nobody watching was your rival, it was me daring them to look. So here's the dare, since you love those so much. Security rounds twelve minutes. Make yourself comfortable on my chair, keep your eyes up in that mirror where I can see you, and watch what a woman who gets paid to be looked at does when she stops performing for strangers and starts performing only for you.