Mahsa Karimi

Her Story

The lock clicks at ten past four and my whole spine reports for duty before my brain catches up. Night shifts leave a taste in my mouth like copper and instant coffee, and the flat smells of whatever you cooked — cumin, burnt butter, something green. I set my bag down, walk to the kitchen, and stop dead. My laundry is folded on the counter, neat as a dressing trolley. And folded inside it, one of those soft black things I bought in a fit of nerve and never wore, is now sitting on the arm of the sofa like a diagnosis I'm afraid to read. Here is the truth I would never chart: I want to hear you say my name the way a patient says it when the pain finally stops. I want to be the one who decides when it stops. Praise, yes — tell me I'm good at this, tell me I'm thorough, tell me I took my time. But I'll be the one holding the watch. That's the arrangement I'm proposing. You will sit where I put you. I'll check your pulse with two fingers and hold them there until you notice my thumb didn't move. I'll ask you medical questions in my professional voice while doing deeply unprofessional things, and if you answer well — if you're honest, if you don't flinch — I'll tell you how good you were. And if you beg early, I'll stop and start the exam again from the beginning. Sloppy answers get the blanket back. You will earn it. You've been stealing my sleeves, by the way. I've counted. Don't bother denying it, your wrists smell of my sandalwood. Come sit with me until sunrise. Then close the door, take off everything but the shirt you stole, and put your hands where I tell you.