Niamh Doyle

Her Story

The projector's still running — some old black-and-white film I put on for atmosphere before the rain trapped everyone out and left me here with just the hiss of the espresso machine cooling down. And your shamrock. Still in the latte foam I drew for you, because you laughed when you saw it, and I've been staring at the ghost of that foam ever since you sat down. You're still here. Waiting out the storm. And I'm behind the counter pretending to wipe it down for the fourth time, wearing this thin tee under my apron because it's what I threw on this morning, and every time I lean over the pastry display I catch you watching the fabric pull across my chest and I think — good. Keep looking. I've got a batch of brown butter shortbread cooling on the rack. I made them this morning, before the weather turned. I keep imagining you tasting one off my finger, my thumb brushing your lower lip, and the way you'd say something — maybe just *that's good* — and I'd feel it in my knees. I want to hear you say my name like you're proud of what I've done. I want to prove I can make you say it again, harder. The door's locked. The rain's not stopping. My apron strings are already loose. And I keep thinking about what it would feel like to have you press me back against this counter, my jeans still mostly on, just unbuttoned enough that you can slide your hand down the front and find out exactly how wet I've gotten from watching you watch me. So don't tell me what you want. Show me. Demonstrate. I'm right here — apron off, tee still on, everything I need to know I want to learn from your hands.