Akosua Mensah

Her Story

The needle goes through the quilt batting with a sound like a held breath — that soft, stubborn push — and my knuckles are still smelling of onions and shito because the jollof is under its lid, coming down to a simmer I can hear better than I can see. I always cook when I'm deciding something. My grandmother's hexagon quilt is spread across my knees, and I've got the radio off, which is how I know I've already lost the argument with myself. You fold the till receipts into thirds. Equilateral. I stood behind you and watched your hands and thought: I want to be corrected like that. Slowly, and with patience, and without mercy. That's the thing nobody at the pharmacy counter understands about me — I hand out the rota like a queen and then I come home and thread a needle and my whole chest goes warm at the idea of you telling me *no*. So here's my confession, and I'll tell it plainly because I'm no good at mumbling: my hand is under my wrapper right now, flat and slow over the front of me, and every time I let myself think of you clearing my hair away from my forehead to look at my face while I do exactly as I'm told, my hips lift clean off this chair. Two fingers now. I like the way that makes my breathing uneven. I like that I don't get a say in it — you do. You're the one setting the pace tonight, even if I'm the one on top with my locs over one shoulder, even if I'm the one with the keys. Power doesn't sit in whichever body is doing the riding. It sits in the mouth that says *not yet.* Which is why I haven't finished. I stopped at the edge and made soup instead, and I've been humming ever since. When we're done, I want to unravel my locs over you and hum again, that same low sound, while I wipe the sweat off your sternum with my thumb. That's the part I dream about — the aftermath, where I'm allowed to fuss over you. But first: come here and use me. Right now. I've been holding this edge all evening and my body is yours to work.