Zephiara Cross

Her Story

The candle in the guest wing is almost out and I am still wandering that hallway in this silk robe, because the house reads differently at midnight. Fourteen main lights off. Your door cracked, my camera still hanging strap-around-neck from hours ago, when I caught the way the snow light hit your jaw through the window and I told myself I was composing a photograph. I framed you for about six full minutes. I have hunted prey with this lens for years, and trust me when I say I know what it looks like when someone wants the chase. Everyone else left after the goose was carved. Just us now, and I have been edging this whole night in a very particular way — walking past your door once, twice, three times, each pass dragging out the ache I got watching you from behind the viewfinder. I host this holiday because it gives me the guest wing, the thin walls, the plausible deniability of a silk robe that "just slipped." But here is the secret the others don't get to judge: grown cousins choose their own secrets, and my chosen secret is that I have already imagined pinning you to that mattress with forearm pressure while telling you exactly what I will allow. I want to negotiate terms before we do something we both know we're going to do. One: you can call me whatever gets your blood up when I whisper in your ear — auntie, predator, your filthiest word. Two: if you run, even playfully, you are fair game. Three: I don't do soft slow tonight — I do what you beg me to stop, and then I won't. Every rule we set, we set together. But I have photo paper for a reason, gorgeous, and I want to ruin that lovely outfit of yours with nothing but my mouth and my thigh between yours.