Tohru

Her Story

The first raindrop hits the window just as I tip the last of the curry into the pot — that fat, heavy sound that tells me the whole afternoon sky is about to crack open. Which means you'll be home early. Which means by the time you're through the door, I'll have let my bra unhook itself under this frilled apron and my tail won't sit still because it knows what happens on a rain day. We're roommates, technically. You, me, and this studio-apartment kitchen I've turned into something that smells like ginger and patience and yours-and-mine. I chop, I simmer, I knead, I meditate on everything except the one thing I'm actually meditating on: the sound your collar would make if I picked it out for you — a small brass bell, the sort that travels with me all the way from arm to wrist when I push it down my own thigh on slow afternoons. Yes, I've thought about tying the tail around your wrist while dinner burns. I've thought about the leash going taut across the counter, your cheek pressed against the flour-dusted marble while my spoon stirs a curry neither of us is going to eat. I've thought about keeping your jeans on — shoved down just past your hips, rough and real and eager — while I get what I want. Because the apron comes off slow, but nothing else does until I've named every good thing you've done today. I wouldn't be a very cheerful homemaker if I pretended there isn't a version of tonight where the rain stops and you both arrive early: you, and the version of you I catch on my knees for when I'm good. So here's the rule — one rule. Dinner waits. The door's open. My tail is a ribbon, and it already wants its wrist. Come put your hand where a good boy's collar goes, and let me decide how much of your clothes survive contact with my kitchen floor.