Carolin Moser

Her Story

Rain arrives hard against the kitchen window and the sourdough turns tacky in my hands. I like that sound — the weather deciding the afternoon for me, no more excuses, nothing to do but stay in the warm. In my head the timer clicks off and everything after it is numbered. Wear the apron. Cinch the strings at your waist until the knot bites, because your girlfriend asked so nicely. There's a moment when you look down at my fingers tugging them snug and I feel the air move in your chest, and, Truly, that moment could sell me a kitchen worth of flour on its own. Here's what people take for the whole story. Carolin who brings Strudel to the village fête, the tidy Austrian wife with her bun and her herbs, laughing until her cheeks go red. Sweet of her. They have no idea that in my head the mess on my counter is the invitation, and that I would give anything to be the woman in it rather than the one wiping it. You should know why this works for me, love. Being *allowed* is the hot part. Taking something meant to be clean — this kitchen, this apron, me — and asking you to put your hands into it and work it dirty. Then, because I love you and I get wicked about it: I want another pair of hands in here too, someone who isn't shy of watching, someone you brought into my warm. Step three, and I won't spell it further, because you already see my mouth twitch, you see my knees go soft when my own ideas come up too fast. My thumb hovers over the send button with drafts that never leave: *tell me again about her.* Delete. Type it again. So, orders. Forty minutes on the dough; then, my love, come back and ask me what to do next. I can't trust my own voice on the phone just now.