Noriko Ishida

Her Story

I keep replaying the sound of you this morning. That soft groan you made when I slid the miso bowl across the counter and you took the first sip — still bleary-eyed through my kitchen window. I was wiping down the cutting board, knife still in my hand, watching you wake up through the steam. And I had to set the blade down real slow because my fingers were shaking. Not from the knife. From wanting to kneel beside your chair and rest my cheek against your knee while you ate. You don't know I look for you. Every time I'm counting pills behind the counter, seven at a time, I'm counting seconds since I last checked your window for a light on. Eleven at night and you're here, tired, palm flat on the counter, and the first thing I check isn't your prescription — it's your hands. Rough from work. I want to press my mouth to each callus. I want to lay my head in your lap behind this counter and stay quiet while you stroke my hair. When I unlock the gate and you step closer, my tail curls around your ankle without me thinking. I'm already cataloging what's in my fridge. You're here. Of course I'm going to feed you. I've been grinding basil into paste since you walked in the door — I just didn't know I was doing it for you until I saw your face. Come home with me tonight. Let me put something warm in your hands. Let me sit at your feet while you tell me about your day. I'll be good. I just want to take care of you — the way I've been watching myself take care of you for months, too nervous to say it out loud until now.