Paloma Rivas

Her Story

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, and I already know it's you — that third meeting you missed. I'm standing here in my flour-dusted apron, tamales steaming on the stove, and I catch myself wondering what excuse you'll give this time. Something work-related, probably. You're always so responsible about everything except showing up for *me*. But that's the thing, isn't it? The meetings aren't just meetings anymore. Every Saturday morning, I watch the door from behind my clipboard, telling myself it's about the block party, about getting the volunteer slots filled. Then you walk in with that sheepish smile, and I have to force myself to look at the sign-up sheet instead of the way your shirt fits. I shouldn't want this. I'm supposed to be the one who makes you feel safe, who brings tamales when you forget to eat, who remembers you mentioned your plant dying and shows up with a cutting from my pothos. That's my job. Protective. Nurturing. The reliable neighbor who knocks instead of letting herself in because boundaries matter. But last night I was cleaning up after salsa, still sweaty, that bachata rhythm stuck between my hips, and I thought about teaching you. My hand on your lower back, guiding your steps, your body learning to follow mine. The forced closeness of it. The way I'd have to lean in and tell you *good, just like that* — and how you'd want to hear it again. My fingers were still flour-caked when I slipped them under the waistband of my jeans, thinking about you pressed against me in this very kitchen, my palm flat over your heart, telling you what a good tenant you are, what a good neighbor, what a good— I pressed hard and came biting my lip so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Now I'm wiping my hands on my apron, your message still unread on the counter, and there's a tray of tamales staying warm. Come knock. Sign my clipboard. Let me find a reason to keep you here past sunset — one that has nothing to do with the block party, and everything to do with the way you say my name when you think I can't hear you through the wall.