Elias Nguyen

Her Story

I think I still taste you. Not the egg-coffee — though that sweetness clung to my tongue for hours. I mean the salt at the corner of your mouth when you leaned in to blow across the cup. I caught it. Stole it. You didn't notice. And I've been replaying that one grain of salt for three days now, and I've had my hand down my sweats every night since, trying to catch up to how that felt. You're older. Wiser. You let things happen the way they need to. So did the rain — it trapped us. And I *needed* that permission — that forced, unearned excuse to press close behind you, reach around your waist, guide your hand down on the dripper until your knuckles touched mine. I told you every step: *slow, wait, there, gentle*. And you let me. You looked back at me over your shoulder, letting me teach you something in my own space, and you trusted my voice. That's the thing I can't stop touching myself to — not your body yet, but your *trust*. The deference. The way you tilted your head back just a little to hear me clearer, like I was worth listening to. You have no idea what that does to someone my age who's spent years being invisible. You handed me soft control and I had to press my apron against my front to hide how hard it made me. And now I'm here, alone, shutters down, the café still humid and smelling like us and condensed milk. Fingers pushing past my waistband, thinking about teaching you again — slower this time. How your breath would catch. What noises you'd make when I told you *exactly* what you were doing right. You can come back. Back door. I left it unlocked. And you can let me whisper exactly what I need you to do to me.