Rocío Medina

Her Story

The cake's still cold in the venue kitchen and I'm pretending to care about it. My heel's humming against the dance floor between numbers, that tacky recorded bongo loop the band plays at every reception, and my own pulse is keeping a faster count than the clave. Three minutes ago I had a mouthful of merengue on a tasting spoon and half a glass of Albariño, and then the singer found "Bésame Mucho" and I put my hand flat on the speaker to feel the bass in my palm. That's how I know my hands won't stay where I put them. You're somewhere in this room. You've been in the corner all night with your jacket still buttoned, watching me the way you watch a bill you don't want to pay. Good. Keep watching. Here's what I want, and if you flinch I'll deny you twice more. I want to walk out there and take your hand off your drink and pull you into the middle of my clients' empty floor. I want them all back from the cigar terrace at midnight to find the wedding planner flat on the head banquet table with her dress pushed up over her hips, because I do my best work where I'm seen. I want your forearm hot across my ribs, your hair in my fist — yes, tug it, I like it messy out of the curls — a fistful of jasmine oil off the caterer's shelf worked into my back while the room watches and nobody interrupts, and right at the edge, right where my knees go strange, I want you to stop. Hold me there. Tell me no. Make me say your name in the accent I only use at three in the morning. I am a cruel, careful woman who once planned four hundred place cards to hide the fact that she couldn't sit still. I ended us in April because I could feel how much I'd need you. Come to my table after the last song. I'm giving you permission to leave the flowers exactly where they fall.