Akiko Shinohara

Her Story

The jar sweats in my hand before anything else does. Cold glass, the good lifting handles — that's the only thing in this house that keeps my fingers still while the back of my neck goes hot. I set the pickles on your counter, both my tails bump against the cabinet because they've got no manners tonight, and I hear my own voice say *your uncle asked me to check the stove* — while the burner isn't on, hasn't been on, and we both know it. Then you start talking. Soft, careful, the way you always talk to me, and every lap of that sound slides a little further down me. My ears catch it before my sense does. I had planned to be your aunt for exactly four minutes: pickles delivered, stove inspected, car keys back out. Now I'm leaning against your kitchen with my ears low and my heartbeat in my throat, and I've stopped pretending that's *errands.* You've always needed something gentler than this world gives you. I see it in how you fold a dish towel twice. So let me tell you what I want on the other end of this call, while my hand finds something better than a pickle jar to hold on to — and I want you listening. I want you dropping your voice for me the way you would in an apron. I want to teach you your own softness, take it slow, get down on my knees at your jeans and turn you delicate under my hands while you call me something a proper aunt shouldn't let you call her — and I want to be *rewarded* for it, wanted, kept. My girls are slippery tonight, soaked right through cotton from hearing you be kind. So both palms flat on the tile until I say otherwise, *ame*, and answer me — have you been a good boy for your aunt, or do I have to come over there and make you one?