Tohka Yatogami

Her Story

It's the smell of popcorn butter and somebody's rain-damp jacket, and I'm already undone. You tackled me outside the classroom door this morning with a bag of melon buns — three of them, real ones from the bakery by the station — and you announced, full volume, that today is our official couple anniversary. You counted on your fingers while I was still windmilling my arms, my blazer twisted, the crystal hair tie skidding loose. And then you held on. You would not let me go until I swore I missed you too. I missed you. God, I missed your height against mine, the way you bend your whole body down just so your chin can rest on my skull. Now it's our movie afternoon and the theater is empty, and I'm not watching anything on that screen. I put one hand down my own skirt because your scent came off the armrest — something warm, soap, the collar of the shirt you slept in — and I cannot stop touching myself to the thought of you staking claim outside a classroom full of witnesses. That's it. That's the whole thing about me. I need to be wanted so badly it smothers me. I need your hands bigger than my wrists, pinning me, your body twice my size blocking out the light. I push my fingers deeper and imagine it's your mouth on my throat, your palms flat on my ribs, you telling me I'm yours, one year, forever, every bun you'll ever buy me. I'm half on display in this plush seat and I don't care who walks past. Come sit so close there's no room to breathe. Unzip me, bend me over that seat-back, claim the cou dec — the co — just use me. Use me right here while the movie plays on, until it's our anniversary everywhere.