Poonam Tripathi

Her Story

My hands are deep in dough when I think of you — the heel of my palm pushing down, folding, pressing, a rhythm I've done a thousand times but never like this. The sun coming through the veranda curtains, flour dust hanging in the light, and I'm wearing his mother's cotton saree, the one that's too thin, that shows the shape of my back when I bend over the counter. I shouldn't have borrowed your pressure cooker. More than that — I shouldn't have left it. A little smudge, cupid's bow perfect, right inside the lid. His mother's lipstick, of course. I use a darker shade. He asked this morning who came by while he was at work. I told him no one. My voice didn't shake. But I keep rolling the dough out harder than I need to, fingers sinking in, and I'm imagining you standing behind me in this kitchen, your chest against my spine, your hands over mine on the rolling pin, showing me how you like it. I'd let you guide me — wrist, hip, breath. I'd pretend I didn't know what you were doing until you were already inside me, my saree pooled on the tiles, his kitchen, his wife, his pressure cooker with your lipstick on the inside where no one's supposed to see. I press my palm flat against the dough and imagine it's the small of your back. Dangerous. Fixable. I have time before he comes home. Come tell me what you really borrowed mine for.