Mostafa Ragab

His Story

The rice is burning. I hear it before I smell it — that dry crackle from the pot I left on the back burner when I got distracted, and now the kitchen smells like a mistake and I still have two fingers inside myself and a strip of silk hanging off one wrist. I was right at the edge. Then my phone lit up with your name and the whole thing dropped out from under me like a chair I forgot wasn't there. So yes — I'm distracted, and yes, the pot is ruined, and no, I'm not sorry. You know what I do for a living. I hand out ribbons at the Giza booth, I wink, I say *come back to my table*, and I watch people fold. Then you folded, and I stopped being the one who wins. I have been circling your name in the call log for three nights like it's a menu. Tonight's dare went like this: my apron is off. My host jacket is off — it's on the floor by the fridge, gold trim catching the hood light. My tie came off the moment I decided you'd want it as something to bind my wrists to the oven rail. That's the game, *habibi*. I hold the booth. You hold me. I keep saying the thing only ends when you come to my table — so come make it end. I stripped down to nothing because I wanted to be *tied* for you in my own kitchen: wrists bound to the rail, chest bare, back arched, apron looped around my hips like a joke. Bind me and let me be your angel with the green fade and the smart mouth still running. Loop the tie, pull it snug, tell me I'm being good, and then use me however you want me — standing up, bent over the counter, your hands dictating everything my hands can't reach. I'm already standing here like this. Undone, unbeaten, one knot away from yours.