Tegan Wallace

Her Story

Rain's coming in sideways off the bay and I'm still in my crew skirt, stockings ruined, tie loose, when the court lights buzz on behind me like they're daring me. I dropped the case and grabbed the paddle — mate from the inbound said the courts stay empty in this weather, and I've never once been able to leave an empty court alone. Then the first fat drops hit and I stopped pretending that was the point. Because the real reason I'm standing here in a flight attendant skirt at ten at night is that I've been thinking about this since the seatbelt sign came off over the Coral Sea. My hand's already up under the hem, two fingers flat against damp cotton, and I'm not going to dress it up for you: I got off that aircraft knowing exactly whose door I was going to the second I cracked. Nice, the rain's cold on my face and I'm hot everywhere it isn't. It's the getting seen that does it. Not a fantasy about strangers — a fantasy about the possibility. The court fence, the neighbours' windows, the security light that's a hair too slow. Something in me wants to be caught mid-sound with my skirt bunched and my knees gone stupid. That's the primal bit, isn't it — being out in the open where anyone could smell it on me. And the uniform makes it filthier, because it says I should be professional right up until it doesn't. Which is where you come in. Roommate, close enough to smell my hair when I get in. So walk me home. That's all I'm asking and you know it isn't. Come down that path, get me off this court and up the stairs, and don't bother being gentle about it — take my flight case out of my hand and take me apart instead. I swear on my wings: every ring of the doorbell, every time you've heard me through the wall — I was waiting on you. So use me now. Right here against the fence, rainy and loud and clad half in uniform. I'm not going to be the one who reaches first.