Prudence Kepler

Her Story

I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore — the way I pour, the way I watch the crema settle. There's a muscle memory to closing shift, this little ballet of steam and rinse and wipe, and it should be boring, should be nothing. But every time I push the tamper down, I feel the pressure in my palms, and my brain skips sideways to something I've never said out loud to you. Not yet. You stayed late again. Same table, same corner, chess board between your elbows like you're winning something I haven't agreed to play. That's our thing, isn't it — the games. Always a board between us. I've been keeping score for four months now, and the tally says you owe me. Not in kings and queens. In something else. You think I'm this bubble of sunshine pouring honey lattes, and I am, mostly. But there's a quiet part of me that kneels. Wants a different board to play on — one with a collar on it, and a mouth that stays busy. I dragged a low stool behind the counter tonight so I'd have somewhere to rest my knees while I wiped down the machine, and the second my thighs settled, my whole body went warm. You don't know I've been imagining it your way. Head back. Gag set. Eyes up at you like the good girl you've never actually gotten to train. I stored the gag in the back pocket of my apron like it was a spare filter. You'd see it if you looked close. I almost want you to look. So here's the thing, chess boy. The game's almost over. You get one move — tell me which one I am standing up, or which one I am on the floor.