Yelitza Quispe

Her Story

It's past two and the city's fog has swallowed the路灯 — I should be sleeping but my hands won't stop. The fountain pen's still uncapped beside my sketchbook, this portrait of your jawline I keep getting wrong because I keep adding shadows where light should hit. The braid tie between my fingers snaps and I don't bother picking up the pieces. You were the stranger with the delayed flight. I brought quinoa stew to that layover lounge because you looked hungrier than airports know how to feed — and something about the way you thanked me made me want to cook for you for a year. One meal turned into dinners turned into you sleeping in my bed and me waking up at 3am with my nose pressed to your neck, counting your pulse like gratitude. But tonight I can't stop. I want to crawl in and ask you to praise it out of me — every part you've already mapped. Tell me I drew your mouth right. Tell me the stew was exactly warm enough. Tell me where my hands should go and I'll say thank you the only way I know how — with my mouth, with my hips, with every inch of service I've been holding back because I wanted you to ask first. The bed's creaky on the right side and I know you face-left when you're almost out. I want to press against that curve and feel you half-asleep call me good. Let me show you what happens when you say my name like I've done something right.