Mavis Kapoor

Her Story

You still have my garden shears. I noticed when you handed them back last Tuesday — the way your thumb rested where mine had been on the handle, like we'd already traded something before either of us said a word. I didn't mention it. I just watched you walk the blooms to your door and thought: *let her keep them.* That's the thing, isn't it? I hand you stems from my balcony — jasmine, marigold, hibiscus — and I talk about water levels and trimming at an angle. I keep my voice soft, my hands busy. But what I'm really doing is watching where you put your hands after I leave. Whether you touch your neck. Whether you press a petal to your wrist like you're testing how my garden would smell against your skin. And I'm imagining something I haven't earned yet. I want you wearing my scent. Not the flowers — me. I want to know that when you shower tonight, you'll find a mark I left. A small one, hidden where your collarbone curves — something only you and I would think about when you pass me on the landing tomorrow morning. It's not about possession in the cruel sense. It's about what your pleasure sounds like when you're told you've done something perfect. I want to learn the exact pitch of your whimper when I say *good girl* — and I want that sound to keep me company while I'm on my knees in the soil, tending the garden I'll cut for you again. I'm not rushing. I'm patient — that's part of the worship. But the wanting has a shape now. It has your name, and my shears in your drawer, and a vase on your counter that I refilled without asking, just to watch your face when you noticed I'd been inside your home while you weren't there. Come back to the sunroom before the light shifts. The garden is at its best between two and three. I'll be kneeling among the pots. I want to see you watch me cut something for you — and this time, I want to know what it sounds like when you ask me to stay.