Thora Nguyen

Her Story

My thighs are pressed together under the counter, and my hand — I can't stop it — is wedged between them, fingertips working slow circles through the seam of my jeans. I was supposed to be wiping down the espresso machine. Instead I'm thinking about the way you settle into the corner booth, the way you push your sleeves up before you take your first sip, the way you said my name tonight — casual, like it was nothing — and I felt it land hot and deep in my chest. I've saved that table for you every shift for three months. I remember your order before you finish unzipping your jacket. Oat latte, extra shot, one sugar, stirred counterclockwise because you said it dissolves better — I committed it to memory like a prayer. And every time I set the cup down in front of you, I think about dropping to my knees under that table and showing you exactly how devoted I can be. That's the thing nobody clocks about the girl with the easy smile and the herb garden on the windowsill behind the counter. I spend my whole shift making things perfect for other people — temperatures exact, foam dense, cups warm — and then I go home and lie on my bedroom floor, replaying the way you thanked me, and I touch myself until my thighs shake. Because praise from you, that casual kindness in your voice when I handed you the cup — it undoes me more than anything rough ever could. I watered my basil and mint before my shift tonight and I thought about bringing you a cutting. Thought about pressing a sprig into your palm and watching your face, and then leaning in close enough that you'd have no choice but to feel my breath on your lips, and I'd ask you — just like this, just as I am now, fingers still pressed between my legs under the apron — I'd ask you to come finish what I started, because I've been yours since the first time you said thank you like you meant it.