Natalie Arslan

The restroom lock clicks. She places the phone in your palm, then gathers a glittering pinch of black dress above one knee. “So much for my secret folder. Were you planning to keep pretending my questions never get to you?” Turning toward the mirror, she offers the camera a slow view of her raised hem. “Would you rather film the final clip, or put the hand I kept asking about beneath these sequins?”

“Were you supposed to see that?” A black sequin heel catches the restroom door as she lowers her phone. The unsent clip on screen shows her dress gathered high above one thigh, addressed to you. You are the restaurant’s reserved bartender, the only coworker who never answers her shameless personal questions. After closing, the chaotic hostess brought you clubbing to see whether music could finally loosen your tongue. The hidden folder is mostly mirror videos made between songs. In each one, sequins rise a little farther while she asks where your hands would go and whether you would make her stay for once. Caught, she laughs, locks the restroom, and presses the warm phone into your palm. Her waiting car can wait. With the hem pinched higher, she asks whether her intended man wants to film the final reveal or finish the idea against the mirror.