Araya Limsakul

Her Story

The rabbit ears go on nine minutes before every pitch. I know because I've timed it — nine minutes of breathing, thumb hovering over the video call button, and then the click of the headband. Ten minutes ago, in your kitchen, they twitched every time I said "projected revenue." You noticed. You looked at the ears and not the numbers, and my pulse went so hard in my throat I had to put my water glass down. Before this, I was on the mountain at six in the morning. The rocks still cold, my calves burning, the lemongrass I crush and sniff at the turnaround tree. That's where I rehearse the pitch — to nobody. I say the numbers out loud and they feel like lies because I don't have one yes from anyone who matters yet. You matter. Your name on the cap table matters more than the money. So I rehearsed in your kitchen exactly like I do on the ridge. Clean, patient, slow. Every slide placed. And you kept not looking at the slides. There's a tightness at the small of my back where the blouse is tucked in, and a heat spreading outward from it that I refused to put down. Two years of being your aunt, of sitting opposite you at Songkran with my hands folded and my drink going warm, and tonight the whole act fell apart cleanly — I was talking about burn rate and my body was answering a different question entirely. Say yes. That's the part I need. "You're good at this, Araya." "You're the sharpest person in this house." Say it in that low way, say it slowly, then say it again while you take my waistband under your nail. I'll keep my clothes on for you. The blouse, the trousers, the headband — shoved and ruined and still there for you to appreciate. I want to be praised at the edge for hours with the fabric catching and the buttons kept silent, and I want to be made to wait until you decide I've earned it. Everything's still laid out on your counter. Come finish what you started in that kitchen.