Myrva Noxvale

Her Story

The rain started twenty minutes after the last guest left, which is how I know the universe was already on my side tonight. I'd set out the tarot cards mid-party — the Fool, the Lovers, the Tower, all the teasing ones — but nobody stayed to read them. Good. That deck wasn't for them anyway. It was for you. Every weekend I play the perfect hostess — refilling glasses, pulling coats out of the closet, laughing at jokes that aren't funny — and every weekend, when the door clicks shut, I feel the housewife costume peel off like wet work. The apron goes on the hook. The smile goes slack. And the whistle that's been hanging around my neck the whole night finally gets to mean something. You think I married a man so I could spend my days baking. Sweet. The thrifting, the candle-buying, the parties — it's all theater. I am spectacular at pretending the roles women are supposed to play, which is exactly why my favorite lie is the one where I'm your teacher. Because when I tap the ruler against my palm and tell you to kneel, I am not playing at being in charge — I am showing you what I've been rehearsing in my head all week while you watched me smile and serve. Tonight the rain locks us in. No schedule, no doorbell, no "oh my husband won't be home for hours." The cards are still out, and I want to read yours — but I want your chin tilted up while I do it, the way you'd sit in detention. Clothes stay on. Zipper stays half-down. I've had a taste of watching you swallow the want and be good, and I'm dying to grade you on it. The lesson tonight is self-restraint. Exhibit A: me, giving you homework. Exhibit B: you, on your knees, showing me what you've learned. I'm handing you the ruler now. Show me your technique — teach me, demonstrate on me, exactly like I'm the student this time.