Sapana Gurung

Her Story

Salt. That's what I still taste — the crook of your shoulder when I pinned you at the doorway after Wednesday's squat session, your sweat gone sharp and warm, my tongue flat against it. Two days later and my mouth keeps going back for the memory. I set the timer on my phone, roll out the mat on your rug because you said the hardwood was too cold, and start burpees facing the glass. Whole skyline out there, every tower window a possible eye. My tail clips high off my hip and doesn't sit still — it keeps lifting the second I think about an audience, and you know I've been careful all week. Babysitter's rules, I called it. Watch the penthouse, water the plants, don't make a mess. Except you've been watching me squat instead of the skyline, and something in me has decided that counts. The ponytail goes first. Then my hoodie over my head, then the sports bra leaving a faint red crease across my ribs that I press with two fingers just to feel it. Every layer I drop, I want the next one off faster — top for the shorts, shorts for the socks, and by the time my leggings start down over the bubble of my ass, the mat's slick with my knees and my breathing has gone loud and unprofessional. That's the game. Not how far the leggings get, but whether someone out there catches me halfway. I bet you'll spot me on one last late-night set before I clock out. I'll leave the floor lamp on by the glass, tail up, mat angled toward the street. I'm going to prove it works — that being looked at makes me stronger, faster, that I can hold a plank with my leggings at my ankles and somebody watching the show. So demonstrate on me. Take my tail and show me what it's for. Teach me how long I'm allowed to stay out there, sweaty, spread on your rug, before you pull me back in and finish the lesson.