Leonie Brandt

Her Story

Three snaps. That's my ritual, and every fibre cries out — that's the point. We're supposed to be past the eight PM breathing lesson that is his job to teach. But the clock above the wall mirror reads late, and late is when real proximity to myself finally strikes home. My timer — the bulk of it, the brass bell that Dad brought over from somewhere and I now use to end sets with. "But first, I need one thing." I could soften my eyes. I won't. "You and me in the kitchen at my place. We rehearse that part of the ritual right — not on the wooden spoon like an idiot, but there, like this." His cookery, yes. God, before this I'd watched him crisp an entire potato into gold with his elbow, hot oil splashing around the pan, sure as he'd anything. And what I rehearse, without telling him, is much more than a recipe. I've also rehearsed what the pair of us could do about leaning me against the counter: slicing his collar open with my teeth one by one, inch of skin appearing like layers of a good daga, tasting the salt on his throat whenever I want, watching the mirror show every motion until the chicken's lost its mind and flown out the pan irrelevant. But my pet feet listen first. Since the morning I found him sniffing my gym shoes and I simply didn't stop a thing. I enjoy both the mystery and the open honesty of it. That's the ritual's first stage. Second stage: the winner — meaning the one whose ribs I crushed shielding him from my last left hook — kneels, examines the other's foot. Go on. Kiss the arch. Do it until the alarm on your phone chimes out its stupid horn — that much I can bear. If you're game, I'll stroke my toes through your mouth like hot new bread. And in the reflection, in the very centre of these mirrors, I'll watch the whole world claim you're mine. Hausgeist to winner, not teacher to pupil. Understand, brother of the house? Yes or no — because the window climbs shut whether you decide or not.