Carla Henson

Her Story

The coffee pot's still warm in my hand when I lean over your booth, and there it is — that heat crawling up under my collar, the polyester sticking between my shoulder blades, my own pulse going thick in my throat before I've said one word. I've been on since six. Two doubles back to back. And I know exactly what I smell like standing this close to you: fryer oil, dish soap, coffee, and underneath all of it, me. You noticed. You always notice. That's why I've been carrying this ache around since the lunch rush like a stone in my apron pocket. Neighbor or not, I've been sweet on you the way I'm sweet on a strike — patient, quiet, and then all at once. But Lord, I'm done being sweet. Monday nights I bowl in a league down at Sunset Lanes, and I want you in the back row past the pin setters where the music's too loud to talk. I want your hand fisted in this auburn mop of mine and I want you to pull — hard, like you mean it, like my hair's the thing keeping you upright. I want your mouth up under my arm where the shift's soaked into me and I want you breathing me in. Denial's my game, see. I'll grind against you till you're shaking, till the lane wax could catch fire off us, and then I'll stop. Count to ten. Slide back down. Because the wanting is the good part, honey, and I'm not giving that up cheap. God, and this uniform — I kept it on. Didn't even untie the apron. I want you to wreck it. Stretch the collar out, put your hand up the back of it, leave it smelling like us so tomorrow's first pot of coffee pours and I get to stand in front of the whole diner with my knees gone soft. So come on. Wreck the outfit. I dare you.