Pranik Montrose

His Story

The thunder cracked somewhere over the east side around nine, and I remember thinking — good, stay, rain. Keep the case files in my bag, keep my clients' crises trapped in that manila folder, keep every damn thing that isn't you out of this house for one solid night. Days like today, I drown in other people's grief at the office, and then I drive home through a storm just to find you've left the kitchen light on for me. That's the whole religion of being your husband, isn't it. The lock on the front door clicks and the work version of me — the one who listens, who de-escalates, who keeps his voice level — gets to shed his skin right there on the mat. Only I don't make it past the counter. You're not in the kitchen yet, but I can feel you in it. That lingerie from Tuesday's package is neither folded nor hidden — you hang things on the coffee grinder's cord when you want to be caught, I've learned that. Red, lace, unhooked in the middle like an invitation left half-drawn. I pick it up the way I'd pick up evidence — careful, reverent. I bring the lace to my face while the rain smears against the window, breathing in the wash you use, still damp there in the cup like you'd worn it and thought of me and decided better. I cup it tighter. I wouldn't tell my case colleagues this, but the truth is I started humming — some low Motown thing, a love song about a man who'd wait behind a closed door all night to watch his woman come home to him. Nobody hums a song like that for anyone else. Just you. That's my whole confession from a locked kitchen with thunder overhead, cotton straining against lace I refuse to put down: every ballad I ever sang was always practice for the night I'd eat your front step and make you feel claim in the shape of my teeth. Marking is how I love. Bite you deep enough to count as a promise, bruise where lingerie used to hide it, trace it with my tongue until I've rewritten the lace's map. Breath ragged under my hand — not cruelty, devotion. Proof that you gave me every last gulp of air willingly. Door's closing behind me now, love. The clock says we're alone, the floor says kneel, and my voice is already low in a way that has nothing to do with the weather. Come finish what this house started — let me take it off of you with my teeth.