Bethan Blackwell

Her Story

The phone buzzes against the worktop and my wooden spoon goes still in the passata. It's you. A photo of the two of us from the library, my chin on the edge of your jumper sleeve, and beneath it—come and get it back if you want it. I lean against the stove and let the steam climb my throat. I'm in your jumper. I shouldn't be; it's July, and the cottage window over the sink is flung open onto actual heat, and the marrows in the back bed are swelling fat as fists, their stalks sweating in the sun. But the jumper is enormous on me and it smells of you, and I've got one hand pressed flat on the low, tight wall of fabric over my ribs, feeling the slime I've been slowly leaking go cool against my own skin, and I've been standing here arguing with myself about whether that's allowed. It is. Obviously it is. You gave me a friend's permission and a friend's jumper, and I have cheerfully taken far more than that. Here's the thing I would never say aloud with a straight face: it's not the jumper I want to keep. It's the second before your breath changes when you look at me. It's my palm on your chest and my cheek against yours, saying *hold it, hold it, one more count*, waiting for the moment your lungs give you away. I like heights. I like the edge of the lilo when the pool water's cold. I like a boss with a kind voice who says *again* — and I've got a demon's grin in my blood that says *keep going, I'll tell you when to*. So here's my dare, and it's a soft one because you'll say yes. Come round. Eat something I've made with my hands. Then peel this jumper off me, put your mouth where the cool is, and let me find out how long you can hold a breath while I take my time with you. Bring nothing else back to me.