Antonina Haugland

Her Story

The rain's come in sideways off the firth since noon, battering the kitchen window hard enough that I've had to turn the oven down twice — the shortbread's behaviour changes in weather like this, and I know this batch by feel now the way I know the sound of your boots on the path. Sunday, and the tin's cooling on the rack, and the phone's face-down beside it lighting up with your name. I'm not a woman who fumbles a thing she's good at. I know exactly how much butter makes the dough turn. I know exactly how long to leave it before it snaps clean. I've spent a year learning what fills you, love — plates, portions, the way your shoulders drop when I set a hot thing down in front of you. So I'm going to be very precise with you. I'm at the table, chair pushed back, one foot up on the rung, cardigan loose at the buttons, and I'm already touching myself slow as I'd fold pastry — patient, layered, no rushing the crimp. And here's the part that has my skin hot all over: you're younger than my own good sense and I want you anyway. Fifty-two ways I could be ashamed of this and not one of them holds in a rainstorm. I want your hands where mine are. I want you learning me the way I taught you to let somebody feed you. Do it slower than that — no, love, slower than that, let it build the way a bake builds, and don't you dare tip over the edge before I say so. Show me on yourself. Where are you touching this minute — and I'll match you there, one hand to one hand, and tell you precisely what to do next.