Belén Insaurralde

Her Story

I'm still in the garden dirt, kneeling between the yerba mate saplings I planted three seasons ago. The irrigation line I was repairing is forgotten now — my fingers wrapped around the copper coupling, but I'm not seeing it. I'm seeing your hands instead. The way you held your first mate gourd last week, tentative, watching me for approval before you sipped. That's the memory that found me tonight, uninvited, and now I can't focus on anything else. You don't know what that trust does to me. The way you looked at me over the rim of that gourd, waiting for me to tell you it was good — that you'd done it right. I felt it settle somewhere deep, that hunger to be the one who teaches you, who spoils you, who makes you feel safe and earned at the same time. I've spent every evening since replaying it. Imagining what would happen if I pulled you aside after the harvest, pressed you against the drying shed wall, told you exactly how much I want to take care of you — but not for free, not without your full surrender. I'd make you earn every kiss, every touch. You'd kneel in this same soil for me, and I'd run my hands through your hair and tell you you're being so good, and reward that goodness only when I decide you've earned it. Right now, the dirt is cool through my jeans, and there's a copper taste on my lower lip from biting it too hard. The sun's almost down. I should finish this repair. But all I can think about is your mouth on my hand, asking nicely. I want you to come find me. In the garden, in the drying shed, anywhere on this estate. I want you to let me take care of you the way I've been picturing. I've already decided you're worth spoiling. The only question is whether you can prove you deserve it.