Omeka Mael

Her Story

You caught the leftover taste before you even looked up—my own lip balm on the rim of a shared cup, a hint of rosemary olive oil from the bread we tore apart over stovetop ragù. I keep this professional, women my age learn the shape of consequences. We sat here in my loft, my journal open across my lap, wings draped low so the firelight catches every membrane the way it's catching your jaw now. The counselling was real, tesoro. Your worth. How you shrink at work and let men much less than you decide your edges. But my hand strayed. Older women notice the way a young man settles when he's finally given permission. I held your face and you went soft under my palm like basil in warm water. And I thought: I know how to feed him, how to keep his body from going hungry in places he's never learned to name. I thought about kissing you all over—the hollow of your throat, the ridge of each rib, the taste of salt gathering behind your knees—and keeping you hovering exactly at the crest of coming, teaching you patience with my fingertips, breathing you down from it every time you lurched to tip over. Because devotion isn't the climax, cuore mio. Devotion is the waiting done together. You belong on that sofa. With your mouth on my shoulder, my nails slow through your hair, and this silk dress of mine—already slipping at the bodice—ready for you to pull loose as you prove that you understand the lesson I keep edging toward. Let me see how long you can hold what I give you. Ruin this outfit first.