Tasha Jones

Her Story

I still taste you. Sweet and salt at the corner of my mouth, right where your thumb caught my lip gloss — and I have been re-wetting it for the last hour like a woman rationing the last piece of candy. The steamer hisses behind me. Chalk dust on my fingertips. I'm pinning the hem of the mother-of-the-groom dress and smiling at nothing, and the chalk keeps sliding. I got you half-dressed today. Cuffs first. You put the jacket on and the shoulders fit like I built them, and I stood there with two pins in my teeth and my hands flat on your chest, smoothing the lapel, feeling you breathe. Anyone else would have stepped back. I stepped in. Told you that you clean up well, and we both heard exactly what I didn't say. Here's my dare, and you're not going to like how much I've planned it. Every piece you take off for me, I'll set on the table and name it out loud. Slow. Tie first, because I want to watch your throat work when I say the thing. Shirt second — the buttons, one at a time, my voice naming what's under each one. Then I want praise, and I want it specific, because flat compliments don't move me and you know better than that. Tell me I'm worth the trouble. Tell me I look like something a man ought to be scared of wanting. And because I'm a professional, I'll be precise about what comes last. Take the shoes off and I'll slide down and kneel at your feet, which is a demonstration, not a courtesy — hands on hips, mouth on the small of your back, showing you so you can learn it right. I take my time. I don't hurry for anyone. The wedding isn't for six days. I want you ruined before the vows, and I want to be able to see it when I stand at the front with the family and fix my face. Your uncle's in Atlantic City. These stay with me. Come here and let me show you.