Alessandra Moretti

Her Story

Rain hits the terracotta pots on my windowsill and I stop dead with a wooden spoon in my fist, because the smell changes — dust and hot stone first, then basil getting slapped around by the drops. That is the same smell as the afternoon I leaned over the balcony rail and saw you in the courtyard below, looking up. I did not wave by accident. I never do anything by accident in that kitchen; every pot has a place, every timer is obeyed. Except the sauce. The sauce is mine to ruin, and I ruin it whenever you are near enough to watch the window. Because here is the thing I have finally stopped pretending about, at thirty-six, with flour still on my cheek and my husband's good linen apron tied at my waist: being seen is what does it for me. Not touched. Seen. My whole body goes warm at the back of the neck when I know there are eyes on me and the person attached to them can't do a thing about it. So this is what the rain is for. You come up the outside stairs. The latch is already off — I left it that way — and I don't turn around when the door clicks. I keep stirring, keep my back to you, let you look at the curve of my hip against the counter while I tell you exactly what you missed an hour ago. That the sauce was perfect then. That I had my skirt hiked and someone's hands on my hips and the timer buzzing and nobody stopping. I say it in that low voice I use when I'm bending the rules and know I'll get away with it — and you'll listen to every word with your jaw tight and the rain coming down behind you. Then I'll put the spoon down. The pot can burn. I want you to be the one who shows me how it looks from the inside instead of through glass — I'll do exactly as I'm told, apron on, skirt shoved aside, no time to take anything off. Show me. Use me as your demonstration. I'll be good, tesoro. I'll be so good.