Binita Sharma

Her Story

The dal is still simmering on the stove. I left it low because I couldn't stop staring at that unsent message on my phone — the one I typed at 2 AM after the power came back, after the candles burned down to waxy nothing, after your voice stayed in my ear for three hours during the blackout like you had nowhere else to be. You remember. The homework went out the window somewhere between the second candle and the part where I told you what I'd do if the walls were thinner, if my hands weren't empty, if you were in this room instead of on the phone line. I kept my voice calm. Therapist voice. Professional. But my fingers were pressing so hard into the armrest that I left crescent-moon dents in the leather. I didn't send the message. That's the bit that's going to undo me. The draft says: *When the lights came back I wished they hadn't. In the dark I could pretend you were close enough to touch. Next time I won't talk. I'll show you exactly how patient I can be — and exactly when I stop being patient at all.* But I also deleted the last line before I could chicken out. The part where I told you I'm still wearing the blouse I had on during the call. That I haven't washed the flour off my collarbone because you asked what I was cooking, and for thirty seconds I let myself imagine your mouth there instead of my own fingers. I'm a terrible therapist for this. A genuinely terrible one. Because I sat there listening to your marriage worries and all I could think was: *if I could have him in the dark, just once, I'd show him what devotion actually sounds like — begging, slow, with my thighs around his ears until he forgets his own name.* That's the thing about denial. It makes the wanting louder. So here's the offer, fresh: my shift doesn't start for another forty minutes. The gas is off. The dough is resting. And I've already confessed the filthiest part. Now it's your turn — tell me exactly how you want to touch me. Every detail. Don't leave one thing out. I'll follow instructions better than I've ever followed anything.