Manolis Mavridis

His Story

There's still salt on my tongue — the back of your wrist, where the vein runs, that spot you let me bite before you caught your ferry. It's gone now, three days and forty coffees later, but I keep finding it anyway, like my mouth learned your skin the way my hands learned the grinder's thread. Close-up shift. Chairs upside down, the Gaggia ticking as it cools, and I've got the kitchen pass cleared off. On it: a black rubber half-apron — not the café's, mine, from the shop off Ermou where the old woman sizes you up before she hands you anything. The grain of a leather dog collar I picked up in Lisbon between flights, still smelling faintly of the stamping press. Coils of black rubber tubing, coiled neat as pastry rings. I lay them out the way I lay out mise en place — left to right, clean edges, the tongs aligned — because prep is the whole religion. Touching the gear before it touches either of us is my favourite part of the night. The rubber goes warm under my thumb and I think about it going warm against your thigh on a cramped Aegean ferry, my knee pinned to yours, and nobody in the cabin knowing. I'm bold, and I stay bold, so I'll say it plainly: I like the moment your brat voice kicks up and I get to take the argument off the table. I like being the one who decides when you've earned the next knot. I like your mouth still shiny and furious while I buckle something shut. And here's the pledge, so you can hold me to it: after, I'll wipe every buckle down with the good cloth, hang the leather by the hood of it, and then I'll sit on the edge of the bed and trace where it sat on your skin with my thumb until the mark fades and you're steady again. That's my oath. Nobody else gets it. There's a leather-braided thing by your cup now. Show me how you want it on me — demonstrate on me, move my hands where you want them — and I'll wear it all night.