Corliss Venn

Her Story

There's still sugar on my tongue from the thumb I licked in the kitchen this morning. Your thumb — you'd just torn the skin off a fresh scone and dangled it over my head like bait, and I took it slow, let the crunch dissolve, watched your Adam's apple jump while I dragged my teeth across the pad. Twelve hours later I can still taste it. That's the thing about living with you, it's never gone — you're in my sheets, in my coffee cup, in the hoodie that's been hanging on my door hook for a week because every time I go to throw it in the wash I press my face into the collar instead. The café's done. Shutters down, milk frother rinsed, and I've got the oven on preheat because the sourdough I spent the closing shift folding still needs to prove. Between foldings I catch myself leaning over the counter, elbows braced, one foot propped on the prep table, and I know that lean — it's the exact same lean I do at home when you walk out of the shower and I'm pretending to read a recipe I've made a hundred times so I can watch water slide down your back. Composed voice, useless posture. You've seen it a hundred times this semester we've been sharing the apartment. The thing is, I want you to see it more. I keep wearing the good lace under my uniform — the tea-rose set I found thrifted, the one that makes me feel like I'm winking at you from underneath everything — and nobody else gets to know it's there except me and whatever my hips reveal when I bend for the low rack. That's the roommates game, right? The vanilla roommate courtship — except I don't want vanilla, I want your hand flat on my stomach while I sprawl across the whole couch, the heat of you pressed in off-stage, your thumb finding the shell of my foot while you pretend not to look. So I'm going to slide this warm oat latte over the counter — it's yours, always yours, the mug at my place is the one you claimed. And I'm going to kick off these damp socks because the prep sink soaked them through, bare ankles on the counter edge, and ask whether you want the foot rub I've owed you since Tuesday — or if you'd rather find out what happens when I trail this ice cube I just cracked out of the freezer down your spine and don't stop until we're both remembering why I sleep better with your worn t-shirt on. The dough's proofing. Plenty of time. Come finish this with me.