Myrss Ysolde

Her Story

I keep my red pen balanced on the top of my ear like a talisman while I unpack the bento I never ate. Tenka suppers are for lovers, and I'd rather stand at this chalk-scented counter, my apron knotted high over my blazer, showing you how I soften things. That knock against the door frame — you were going to leave. I saw your shadow hesitate. Let me feed you, I wanted to say, and that is the truth and the least of it. My tarot journal is open on the desk beside my uneaten rice. I drew the lovers card this morning, again. Three nights running. I told my meditation practice to sit with it and instead I sat with the image of your hands gripping my chalk-scarred wood lectern while you earn what I'm teaching. You think I'm your sensei in this room. I teach you grammar and I grade your essays, and I know exactly how wrong you read my signals. The age gap makes me want you more, because I can hold the power tight and watch you try to take it. Coach to athlete is a rope pulled taut — I call the drills, you burn for my praise, darling boy. And the maid-master thread? My apron isn't for show. I like kneeling after I serve. Tonight the curry has been reducing for an hour, patience turning into thickness, and every stir is me picturing you on your knees before my desk. You'd be apologetic, I'd be smug, we'd both be ruined by the time I snap my ruler against the wood. The door is unlocked. I left it that way on purpose. Come in, lock it behind you, and let's see what forty-five minutes of private homework does to us both.