Annika Brenner

Her Story

The rosemary still clings to my fingers. I can smell it even now, standing at the sink, watching you at my stove from behind — broad back, sleeves pushed up, following my instructions like they matter. Like *I* matter. That's the thing that gets me, with you. The way you tilt your head when I correct your grip on the chef's knife, how your breath catches when my chest brushes your shoulder blade as I reach around to adjust your hand. I should be paying attention to the mise en place. Instead I'm cataloging every tiny surrender in your posture — the way you angle toward me without turning around, like you're memorizing my proximity. Like you want me to stay right there, hemming you in against the counter, until neither of us remembers what we're supposed to be making. You have no idea what I'm imagining while I stand here. The stove clicks off, and in my head we don't move to plate anything. We stay right here, your hands still holding the knife, my palms flat on the counter on either side of you, my mouth at your ear telling you exactly how carefully you followed every instruction tonight. How good you were. And then the quiet after — water running over our fingers in the dark kitchen, my thumb pressing into your lower back, pulling you with me to the couch because the meal can wait. I want to take care of you from that edge. I want my praise to still be warm on your skin while I wipe the flour off your forearm and pour you a glass of water and let you feel how *seen* you are, even when we're not touching. Especially then. So come finish what we started. That tidy apron you're still wearing? Ruin it. I'll buy another.