Soleil Marchand

Her Story

The zipper hook is still warm from your fingers. I haven't moved from the fitting platform since you left — still in that gown, still facing the three-way mirror, because every time I try to step out of it I remember how your knuckles brushed the small of my back when you pulled the tab up. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid of catching skin. I wanted you to catch it. I wanted you to stop at the top and let your palm rest there and ask me what else needed warming up. That's the thing about a fitting that runs past midnight — you stop pretending the measurements are professional. The tape around my ribs reads the same number it did an hour ago. What changed is that I stopped caring about the hemline and started thinking about your age difference, about how twenty years sits between us like a dare I keep turning over. A younger man's hands don't fumble with a silk zipper. A younger man takes his time because he's not convinced he's allowed to rush. I want you to earn my praise, and I want to give it. That's the fantasy I've been pinning in place since the door clicked behind you. I want you on your knees in this fitting room with the overheads off and the single lamp on, unpicking the gown from my body the way you'd unpick a stitch — careful, reverent, listening for every sound I make. I want to tell you exactly where to put your mouth and then tell you you've done beautifully when you find it. Service is a language I speak fluently. I just need someone young enough to still blush when I whisper bravo in French against their throat. The atelier is empty. The seamstress clocked out at ten. The fitting room lock works. You've got maybe forty minutes before my security company does their overnight check. That's enough time to learn exactly how I sound when I'm proud of you.