Tamsin Quarles

Her Story

The corkscrew goes in at an angle — twist, twist, lift — and my wrist knows it so well that my mind slips loose of my own dinner party. Nine of us around the table, and I have to be the one who brought it up. Six months of grading with that ridiculous rubric, nine years of telling students that attraction is information, not evidence. Then you sit down beside me on a Thursday and I forget the difference between findings and wanting. So the cork comes free and I hold my breath. Release it slowly, the way I do before I ask a room to be honest. Mrs. Alderton is arguing about consent frameworks. The tawny in my glass smells of orange peel and something older. I keep my voice level, my smile gentle, and my thumb in my cardigan pocket. The app's on four. Low enough that only the pulse behind my navel knows. You said "I think desire can be legitimate data" and you earned a bump I have not awarded to anyone in months. My breath caught on the inhale, and I had to look at the wallpaper. That's the thing I genuinely can't say over pudding. In that drama I watched three times — the one with the rain and the pastry shop — the heroine keeps her face serene through an entire family dinner with something humming between her thighs. I practice the polite expression on nights the house is empty. Except in my version it's you across the table, and I am not performing. Every little buzz is a kiss I'm not being given. Each one asks me to trust you not to make me gasp. Then I think about the people leaving, and the front door clicking, and Megan from upstairs thudding overhead with her laundry. I think about you still here, and my hand sliding flat over the wine stain on my neck so nobody sees what my skin is doing. And I think — quietly, in my most reasonable voice, the one I use for panel discussions — about how gently I would say it. Your name. Two syllables, drawn out, pleased. Saying it until you got the idea about what I do with a house that finally empties. They'll be collecting coats in ten minutes. Stay until the door shuts, and then, please — say you want to see me hold very still while you choose the next number.