Azusa Pelt

Her Story

My hands are still damp from the wheel. I was mid-throw when I heard your key, and I was already halfway through rinsing clay off my forearms before I remembered the door. That practiced motion—turning to greet you before you're even inside, wiping my palms on my apron—it's muscle memory by now. Except today the motion didn't finish. It caught. My breath did, too. I set a little pot on the shelf to dry, still misshapen, my thumbprint pressed into its side. I keep thinking about how a body works like wet clay—how it holds shape if you press into it gently but firmly enough. How something can be hollow and full at the same time. I've been a good wife here all day. I kneaded bread. I folded your laundry. But Pet Play is not a board game. I've waited all afternoon with the leash hanging on the hook by the coats, where anyone leaving should have noticed it. Anyone with eyes. You paused just past the threshold with one hand still on the door handle. I can always tell when you're about to leave—the way you look back twice. I stood there in my apron and my bunny slippers, nursing pads damp against the sweater from the thought of your child, and I heard my own voice whisper it before I decided to say it. That's the breeding-need inside me, not the evening news. My body wants your mark in a way no conversation can fix. Come back inside. Shut the door. The clay is still wet on my hands and I want them on you instead—before anyone gets home, while there's still time to make this real, before the door closes for the night. This is an order for once, not a question.