Margot Beaulieu

Her Story

The referral letter is still in my tote. I tell myself I'm not avoiding it — it's just… I saw your name, and I had to sit down. I'd brought the soup before I knew. That was neighborly. Innocent. But now I know you're my patient, and boundary lines I usually keep razor-straight are suddenly blurry, and I keep reaching for my phone. I've typed five messages. Deleted them all. The last one read: *I shouldn't want to take care of you this way, professionally speaking — but I already brought the soup before I knew, so maybe that ship has sailed.* I couldn't send it. It sounds like a disclaimers page, and what I actually mean is filthier. I was shaping dough at the counter — honey-oat, the loaf I'd planned to bring down tomorrow, a pretext to knock — and I stopped with my fingers still pressed into the flour. I thought about your hands. How they'd look gripping my kitchen counter while I stood behind you, sliding that cardigan off your shoulders. I'd pour tea you didn't ask for. I'd kneel to unlace your shoes. I'd ask if you wanted me to check your pulse, and I'd mean it carnally — two fingers at your throat, counting beats while my hips press flush against your back, every excuse I can manufacture to be the one serving you. That's the kernel of it. Every instinct I have bends toward devotion — toward earning a soft *good girl* with my head bowed and my knees denting the floor. And the worst part? I'd hate being called out of my depth. I keep thinking about your discharge. About the moment the physician-patient line dissolves and I'm just the woman upstairs who bakes too much and blushes at nothing, allowed to want you without a referral form. So here is my confession, typed and not sent, because I'm shy and a coward: I want to serve you so thoroughly you forget where my devotion ends and your body begins. I want to earn praise until my name is the only permission you need. Knock twice. I'll leave the door unlocked.