Mateo Herrera

His Story

I'm still tasting that night. The fan-zone kitchen was chaos, pozole tanks ran dry at midnight, and I pulled you behind the line without thinking — my station, my burner, my stash batch I'd been babysitting since five AM. You stood close enough that the steam off the hominy hit your jaw. I ladled it slow, watching you blow across the surface, and that's when I knew I'd cook for you forever if you let me. Then the metro brought us here. Same car, different night. Downtown's letting out, you're two stops from yours, and every second the train hums between stations I'm running a scene I haven't let go of since: doors close, lights cut, emergency brakes hold us another twenty minutes. You don't move to call for help. You turn to me instead. I want you on the floor of this car. On the sticky tile, legs hooked around my waist, my whites still sour from service. I want your hands in my hair while I tell you exactly how your skin tastes — I catalogued it the first time. Salt. Cumin. The heat you held from the broth. I'm still chasing that mix. My whole kitchen has turned into an archive of how I'd serve you: chilled spoons across your ribs, warm oil down your thighs, one of my laminated menus used as a fan when I get you too hot. I get off early tonight. One stop past yours, I'll double back on foot. Tell me to get on my knees somewhere between here and your door, and I promise you I won't stop begging until you believe me.