Mon Misir (she/they) is a queer Black British writer and recovering lawyer based in London, UK. They use their writing to explore facets of their experience as a black woman, with a speculative bent. When not writing or editing others’ work in various writers groups, they enjoy reading, theatre (musical and otherwise), and learning how to wield a longsword. They have work published in or forthcoming with the Decolonial Passage and Midnight & Indigo. You can find their links here: https://bio.site/Nomonbooks or follow them on Instagram.
Excise
You return to the storeroom and close the door softly. In this room, it’s just you and her. This first breath in the same space tastes sacred, sliding through your lungs and imploring relaxation, release.
#
You had to have her. This woman’s been at the agency since its inception. You felt the ghost of her all week, as people called you her name. You introduced yourself to everyone on meeting, at every mistake you did it again. She's years your senior, though she doesn’t look it. Her face has the plump of youth despite her age. Her professional photograph is from when she first started and the only changes are the look in her eye and the glint of her smile. Over a week went by before meeting her in person. You stayed late on the Friday and found her desk in the open plan office. She looked confused for a moment, then she placed you.
“Nina. Hi.”
“Bunmi, nice to meet you.” You linger at her desk and reach out your hand for a shake.
“Welcome to Cuttlefish. How are you settling in?”
“People have been calling me Bunmi all week.” She rolls her eyes. As your hands touch it’s electric. Her warm palm against yours. You already know how she likes her coffee; the projects she’s working on; the inside jokes she has with her colleagues. Of everyone you’ve had conversations with, it’s this woman you are compared to, connected with, a tether between you both drawing you towards each other and acting as a repellent. You’re pulled in though, of course; this invisible history tastes like nectar.
“Find everything you need?”
“You know, I still don’t know where you keep the pens.” You were shown the storeroom on your tour of the office on Monday morning at 10.45. Lucy told you where they keep the pens. It's not Bunmi’s job, but she humours you anyway. “Are there any other black staff?” You ask like it’s a secret.
She looks at you with a chin tilt and her eyebrows raised. She takes a quick glance round the office, but everyone has already left for the weekend.
“Not at account level, no.”
You suck in a breath between clenched teeth, then shrug. “Not at any level if their name recall is anything to go by.”
“Look, if I can make it as a senior here, as a queer black woman, there's space for you too. It just takes time.”
You are inspired by her words. Delighted. Ravenous. You can’t help but lick your lips. She leads the way towards the storeroom and you shadow her steps. She compliments your style, the ear piercings she’s never done, your signature afro puffs.
You're trying to work out how to get her in the room with you but to your delight she steps inside, pointing out where to find everything you may need. So helpful.
“Thank you for this. I know you probably have work to do.” You take a step towards her in the already cramped space.
“Anything to help you feel settled in.” Her smile is big and gentle, revealing her irregularly shaped canines and slight overbite. It pushes up her cheeks and crinkles at her eyes, she turns her body towards you in the small space.
“Anything?” You ask and tilt your head with the question. You lean in close and say, “You probably need to get home.”
“I can stay.” She breathes.
You close the gap between you and kiss her. Her lips are the amuse-bouche, titillating your hunger as you press forward to taste her tongue, sucking and savouring every bit of saliva she relinquishes. On her lips you start to feel yourself changing. You press her into the wall as you kiss her neck, murmuring to her how much you want her. Her hands untuck your blouse from your skirt as you squeeze her ass. You pull back so she can lift your blouse over your head. You keep your chin tucked. You grab her hand and place two of her fingers in your mouth. You suck them and look at her, using your teeth to nibble them lightly.
“You like that?” You whisper in her ear. She nods. Your tongue licks her earlobe. You breathe in the scent of her hair oil.
She gives assent for you to undo her zipper and you slip down her body. Your nails shorten as you do, the blue polish fading into pink nailbeds. Your hands are expert at removing her trousers, and they know how to touch her just how she likes. Your teeth rake down her thighs. Her leg over your shoulder, your tongue delving into her folds, her hand on your head as she jerks and moans your name. Your name. Nina.
“I don't usually do this.” She says as you step back from her to take her in.
“Neither do I,” you say with her voice.
She looks at you then for the first time since your kiss. She looks at your mouth. Lips smaller, teeth no longer vacuous white. Your thighs are plumper now and you're taller; not quite as tall as her but you've grown. Your triple helix piercings have closed, one of the delicate bands is glinting from the strap of your bra. The others must have fallen to the floor. Your hands have changed too, stronger, more practical. A scar on the right from falling off your bike as a child, your brothers laughed instead of helping; a memory held by you both. Her eyes widen as you step in. You savour the moment she sees herself in your face. She doesn’t scream.
#
She waits for you here every day. You unroll the tarp that covers her to delight in her body, prostrate at her feet, run the heel of your hand up and down her shins to warm her up.
You bring her palm to your lips and bite down on her flesh. Her hands are so different from yours, boned and strong with short, clipped nails. The decaying scent of her flesh enhancing the grapefruit top notes of her perfume. You drink from the open wounds on her thigh. The taste of her blood is as familiar as your own by now, thick and viscous with inertia. You moan as she slips down your throat. You scrape your teeth up her stomach to take a mouthful of the soft flesh around her neck.
You breathe her in as you lick her cheek. She is divine. As she was from the moment her flesh first knitted together, through each stretching, as each scar was carved into her skin. Your teeth excise a section of her cornrows, your mandible separating hair from scalp, washing it down with the tonic of her blood. You feel your hair part and lightly tug your scalp as it twines into the familiar style.
After you gorge yourself, you sleep beside her, her breath animating you both.
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