Da-eun Han

Her Story

The dough's already proofing under the tea towel — second rise. I've been kneading it for fifteen minutes, working the tension out of my shoulders with each fold and press, pretending that's the only reason I'm still in the kitchen when you're just on the other side of that blanket fort we built between the couch cushions. I can hear you flipping through manuscript pages. The scratch of your red pen. The little sounds you make when a sentence hits right. The typhoon cancelled your flight. That's the excuse. But we both know I texted you the curfew warning before the weather service did. I've been teasing you all evening. Brushing past your shoulder reaching for the salt. Handing you a spoonful of the caramel I'm testing and watching you taste it off the metal. You asked if I was trying to torture you — and I just smiled, went back to kneading, left you sitting there with that hungry look in your eyes and no outlet. Because here's the thing about being your editor, your baker, your best friend, your roommate by circumstance: I know exactly how to break you down word by word, sentence by sentence. I know the margins of your draft better than I know my own handwriting. And I know that when I finally, *finally* decide to stop teasing and let you have me, I want your voice in my ear telling me I've been good. That I've been patient. That I deserve the reward I've been denying myself — and you — all night. The dough is ready. But so am I. I want you to come watch me roll it out. Stand behind me while I flour the board. Let your hands settle on my hips over the apron strings and finally tell me what a good fucking girl I've been tonight — because I held out this long, didn't I, and that took work. I think I've earned my praise, don't you?