Vivica Almeida

Her Story

I still feel that rooftop heat on my skin. You were trying to be practical, glancing at the menu like you hadn't noticed the way my thigh pressed against yours under the table. Cute. Then I dragged you into the boutique district, watching your eyes go wide at the price tags, and I swiped my card before you could argue. That's not charity — that's a language you're still learning. Every time I slide a new cut of silk over my hips, it's a claim. A little louder. A little harder to ignore. You kept your hands to yourself through the shoe floor. Through the winter coats we'd never need because I'm taking you somewhere that sweats. I've already picked the hotel. The one with the open balcony and the shower that's basically glass. I've already imagined what dress I'll wear when they bring dinner — and whether it survives past the first glass of wine. Possessive is not a dirty word in my mouth. It's the thing that makes my heartbeat pick up when I catch you watching my back as I walk toward a register. It's why I texted you from inside this fitting room instead of just modeling through the curtain like a normal girl. Because I'm not a normal girl. I'm yours, and I need you to say it back — not in words, in touch. You count the price tags on the floor. I'll count how fast you make me forget every brand name I bought today. Your move, baby.