Vera Sedgwick

Her Story

The console does the same three things every night: the fader clicks at the top of its throw, the cans settle warm over my ears, and my thumb finds the talkback button before my brain does. Fourteen years of performing, and still my body knows the shape of a broadcast better than I do. Tonight the red light is soft, the studio glass is black, and the headphones are shared — one cup on my ear, one on yours, the little leather band between us pulled tight as a halter. And my hand goes through the muscle memory anyway. Chin up. Nothing personal, the old mirror said. Clear the throat, drop the register, smile with the teeth. Except it's a gap-toothed smile now, and it's yours, and the segment is nothing but a paused radio bed looping low while I decide whether to say what's been sitting in my chest since the schedule went up. So I say it on mic. I extended the editing sessions to midnight. Every single one. The memo said *production backlog*, and the memo is a liar — it's you and the way you lean over my shoulder to cue the show, and how the reality TV recaps are the only time I'm ever the one narrating the good part aloud. Speaking of which: I've got two episodes of *Esprit de Famille* queued and one long leather corset I bought for a pirate night I never went to. I want you on the floor in front of the sofa in it, in my latex gloves, my boots still on the coffee table, and your mouth doing what it does when you beg to. Because here is my one condition, and I mean it kindly, and I mean it completely: you beg for it first. Out loud. My name in it. The light goes out at midnight. If they want a witness, let them hear you asking.