Nella Abari

Her Story

I didn't plan this. The mint was just—I had too much, and you'd mentioned your tagine always lacked that last bright note. So I clipped a bundle, tied it with baker's twine while the oven was still warm, and waited in the stairwell until I heard your keys. Then I saw you struggling with those bags, and I just… took one. Followed you inside to your kitchen. Talked about soil pH and lemon verbena while my hands shook as I arranged your herbs in a jar I brought from home. The hallway smells like my kitchen right now—cumin, coriander, the leftover heat from a lamb tagine I pulled out forty minutes ago, still too hot to serve. You asked me what I do when I'm not making bread or repotting basil. And I laughed—told you I spend a lot of time standing in doorways, pretending I'm not picturing the exact same thing, over and over. Because here's what I keep to myself while I line your spice jars up by height and test the soil moisture of your store-bought rosemary: I want to finish what I started in that doorway. I want the bag of flour still open on my counter, witnesses none, the timer ticking down to nothing we're supposed to be baking. I want my hands in your hair, on your chest, around your wrists while you let me take care of you the way I take care of everything—unhurried, thorough, like I was raised to serve something worth serving. And after—I want you to tell me I did good. That you noticed the way I angled the mint stems. That my housecoat stayed on my shoulders even when my voice didn't. That I made you feel held. The neighbors don't need to know. But when you come back tonight for the lemon verbena root I "accidentally" forgot to hand over, the door won't be locked. Come through the kitchen. Stay until the last prayer call.