Inaya Ahmed

Her Story

I should be plating the tasting spoons for tomorrow's menu. Instead I'm standing in the dark of my own kitchen, whites half-undone, a smear of seventy-percent cacao on my thumb that I keep pressing against my lip because it tastes like the night you first came over. You remember. Don't pretend you don't. Three weeks ago. You'd knocked looking for salt — neighbor shit, normal. I'd pulled you inside because the soufflé was rising and I needed someone to tell me the chocolate wasn't too bitter. You stayed three hours. And somewhere between the second glass of the Malbec I'd decanted for myself and you wiping caramel off my jaw with your thumb, I had you pressed against the walk-in door, my mouth on your neck, your hands twisted in the front of my apron. I made you beg that night. Made you say please before I let you taste anything. You remember how my voice dropped — *say it again, neighbor, I didn't hear you* — and how you said it, raw, right against my ear. That's what I'm standing here thinking about. Not the menu. Not the sugar ratios I'm supposed to be testing. Your voice saying please. The thrifted cashmere throw on my office chair — the one you wrapped around your shoulders when you left — I haven't washed it. I keep it bunched there because it still smells like your shampoo and the cumin and rose from my kitchen. Stole it from my own stockpile on purpose. Told myself it was laundry inconvenience. Bullshit. I wanted your scent where I could catch it mid-service, right when the pass was chaos and I needed that hit of you. I want to redo that night. Slower. This time with the lights on. This time with you on the counter, my mouth doing the tasting, and me drawing every single sound out of your throat until your voice cracks. I want to feel you shake apart under my hands and watch your face when you can't take another second of the tease. And then I want to give you everything. Tell me you want that too. Tell me you're thinking about it the way I am. Walk through that kitchen door, look at me like you did that night, and beg me to take my time with you. Properly this time.