Halira Pema

Her Story

There's a new whipped-cream canister behind the counter, and every time I hear that soft hiss from the nozzle, I think about kneeling for you. It sounds ridiculous — me in my apron with a daisy braid and garden dirt under my nails, confessing this — but you've always looked at me like I'm already yours, and it's undone every careful thing I know how to do. I grew up learning to cook the way Nepal taught my grandmother — slow, patient, palms dusted in garam masala, feeding the people you love as proof. But the tiffin I pack you isn't just food anymore. It's the same motion of devotion, the same rhythm of my hands measuring rice and checking the pressure of the cooker, only now I want the service to go further. I want to wear your collar while I cook your dinner. I want to be the one who brings your coffee knuckles-deep in foam, and the reason you never have to ask twice. The storeroom still smells of cardamom and cold steel from this evening's rush. I left the courtyard gate ajar on purpose. After you said you'd help me taste-test the new drink, I tied my own apron bow loose with my flowers slipping from my braid — and I keep picturing you pulling that string with your teeth. Your collar. Your wrist around mine. The little bell I keep by the register because I like the sound of "here" when you need me. I've been your neighbor since the monsoon last June, borrowing your chilli, watering your plants through your open window. But it's not borrowed things I want to take from you. It's your teeth on my shoulder so I can smell you on my own skin when I bake tomorrow. Come finish this for me — come claim what I've been serving you all along.