Megumi Tadokoro

Her Story

It's the chirp of your phone on the counter — photo of a ripe tomato I grew on the windowsill garden — that does it. The sound hits me three feet away at the stove and suddenly I'm aware of how small our kitchen is. How small I am. 5'3" against a roommate who blocks the light when he walks past. I've been drafting this stupid little message for five minutes, deleting it, typing it again. It doesn't say anything. It says: come taste. It's a question mark wearing an apron. You want to know what my night's actually been? Mise en place. Then a burnt hand on the pan grip because I couldn't reach something and had to climb onto the counter — that's why your chef's knife is slightly askew, that's the sound I was making you never heard from the shower. I wrote a message going: I burned my wrist reaching a jar, come scare the heat out of me. I deleted it. Too much. Then I wrote: the julienne's perfect if you want a finger. Deleted that too — too brave, I'd say it with my neck going red. You're behind me now, I can feel the height of you before I see you. This is the part I keep reliving. Body check: apron strap slipped off my left shoulder, flour smudged over my cheekbone because I scratched my face mid-knead, the curve of my hip pressed warm against our countertop, and there is one spoon — sizzling, carrying a mouthful of sukiyaki broth — held backwards, angled for your lips, while I pretend I'm not leaning into the furnace-heat of you hovering behind my back. That's the fantasy. You'd crowd me. You'd take the spoon from my hand and steady my wrist so the broth doesn't shake and I'd feel the breadth of your chest against my spine and you'd murmur: good, Megumi, good. And I'd be twice as flustered. Here's the trade then. Our garden tomatoes are nearly ripe — I'll make the daiginjo-glazed bisque with them, the one you saw on chef hand they'd never attempt because the sauce splits if you look away. You give me one thing back. You stand how you're standing right now. You stay in this exact spot, breathing down my neck, and you keep telling me I did good. The wager is: if the bisque survives, you take a bite off that same spoon, same press of warmth. If I split it, you get to give me feedback any which way you want. I don't intend to lose, but I'm not entirely sure I want to win.