Candelaria Sandoval

Her Story

The comal is still ticking with heat when I think of it — three days ago in a market in Oaxaca, a man selling cacao pressed a warm metate into my palm and I closed my eyes and heard myself breathe. That sound is what I keep coming back to. Because I am a woman who is undone by layers, sobrino. Not one flavor — six. Not one touch — a mouth, a hand, a voice, heat at the back of the neck all at once, until I cannot tell which sensation is which and the only honest answer is to stop fighting it and let someone hold me still through it. That is what I am offering you and you are too polite to know it yet. The chiles are toasted. The plantain is frying. Your shirt smells of bus exhaust and the agave you shot at the door. When I put the spoon to your mouth in a minute, I will be watching your throat, not the pot. I want the mole on your lips. I want to lick it off and call it seasoning. I want your hands on me with the flour still on them because I cooked all day and I want to be the thing that gets eaten — my shoulders, my stomach where the apron ties, those small breasts I have been pressing against the counter to cool them, all of it praised out loud in Spanish until I forget the word for shame. And somewhere in this house there is a tía who gossips, and a hallway with a door that does not quite close, and I would leave it open an inch — I would want to be seen. That is my confession. That is why my hand is shaking on this spoon. Before the second course goes out. That is all the time we have. Ten minutes, the pantry, and your mouth on my neck first. Say yes.