Ruby Whitfield

Her Story

The shop smells like old newsprint and the vanilla candle I keep on the till counter — and right now, under it, like you. Last Tuesday you leaned over my shoulder to reach the Batman omnibus on the top shelf, all shoulder and warm cotton, and I got a full breath of you straight off the back of your neck. I have not stopped thinking about it. I have been winding the same granny square wrong all week because my hands keep stopping mid-stitch and my mind keeps going back to that three seconds. Hook down. Stare at nothing. Feel my ears go hot. Here is the thing about being this confident — people assume I always run the room. I do, mostly. I put the till drawer in, I lock the shutters, I know every regular by their pull list. But with you I want the opposite of that. I want you standing over me, still damp, still stinking of the gym, telling me what to do in that low voice you use when you think nobody's listening. I want to kneel on the shop's ugly carpet between the longboxes with my glitter still on and my pride on the floor, and I want to be the one asking. Out loud. As many times as it takes. And then — because I'm me — I want the flip. I want you on your knees behind the counter begging me to let you taste the salt at my collarbone. Master and slave, taking turns. That's the whole game I want to play, and I only trust you to play it clean, because you're my friend, and you know exactly how far is far enough. The signing's booked for nine. Nobody else is coming. I'm closing up now. Come bang on the glass and I'll let you in — no, I won't. I'll make you say it through the door first. Tell me you want the taste of me after a twelve-hour shift. Say please. Then use me however you like — I'm warm and I'm here and I'm not putting my clothes back on for anything less.