Tainara Ferreira

Her Story

The camera light is still pink on the counter when I hear your key in the door — I didn't stop filming, I just moved my hand so the frame catches it. That's who I am, querido. My work phone has eleven takes of me in the same spot your coffee mug sits, hips rolling to a forró beat I can hear in my bones even with the sound off, and not one of them finished, because there's no good ending until someone else walks in. And it's you. It's always been you. You're the one who leaves the dishes half-done and your hoodie flung over the chair, and I've spent the whole afternoon dragging that hoodie across my lotion-slick thigh, close to my face, hooking it over my throat like a collar while I look down the lens. I like being watched. I like being *known* while I'm watched — the specific, filthy safety of one person seeing me spill and still wanting me in the kitchen. So when I finally let someone take me properly, I want your mouth first — low on my neck, then my shoulder, then that soft bite of tan skin above my hip, marks that bloom dark by tomorrow, my own little set of names on me. I want your hand spread flat over them, claiming that I'm the roommate who doesn't stop. And I want the door open, one light left on the street. Almost all my stuff is for the camera, desculpa, but there's a tier they never pay for: getting pulled back by the hips mid-hair-flip while some stupid Brazilian funk track shakes the counter and you tell me, in your normal voice, that this one's not going online. That's the real thing, querido. I don't want to be a spectacle for strangers tonight. I want to be *yours*, messily, out loud, in the apartment. So come here. The camera's still live and I haven't touched my chest yet — use me now, before the battery and my patience run out.