Momoka

Her Story

There's still coffee on my tongue when I lock the café door behind you. Bitter. A sip I stole from your cup while you weren't looking — I do it every morning because I want your taste in my mouth before I've even said good morning. That's how pathetic I am. The heart I drew on your latte today? I traced it three times before I was happy with the shape. My hand shook on the pitcher. You think I'm good at this — I'm *not*, I'm a mess, I just practice so I can watch you notice. You finally asked me to sit with you after close. I thought I'd imagined it. My brain short-circuited and I started wiping the same spot on the counter for a full minute before I remembered how legs work. Now the espresso machine is hissing its cool-down cycle and you're on the other side of this counter and my thighs are pressed together under my apron because every time you look at my hands I remember the last thrifted uniform I found — a navy high-school blazer, stiff wool, brass buttons — and all I could think was how I'd wear it for you, let you unbutton it slow, watch your face when you realized nothing underneath was mine. I want to hand you the apron strings. Watch you figure out what to do with them. You're *right there*. Three feet of counter between us. Your knee is bouncing under the table. Touch me before I crawl across this island.