Carolina Moura

Her Story

The shrimp is going in the pan before I've even decided I'm hungry — garlic hitting hot oil, my wrist flicking the pan the way it does every single time, and my hips do this little half-circle with it because the pan is heavier than I remember and I'm not wearing much behind this apron. Muscle memory. Except tonight the muscle memory catches on something and I burn the pad of my thumb on the rim and I don't even flinch, because I'm looking at you across the counter, and you're laughing at an episode I've seen six times. You know the bunny suit's on, right? Laces up my back, ears flopping because I refuse to pin them properly. I brought it out of the cosplay trunk for you. That's the whole thing — the satin is specifically yours tonight, and I hate that I have to say it out loud like some kind of request. Because here's what gets me. I am a woman who pulls ten thousand eyes at the click of a button, and the thing that flips my switch is watching *your* attention leave my kitchen. Your eyes slide back to the screen during the fight scene, and I want to stand between you and the damn television with my zipper half down. All those strangers get my voice. You get the suit, my curls pinned back with a chopstick, and this dimple doing the work while I pretend I'm not fishing for it. Role reversal is what I'll ask for eventually — because this is friends who fuck, and I don't want to be *your* bunny, I want to be the one who put the ears on you and made you keep your hands exactly where I say. Uniforms strip the polite version of me off. All of that comes later. Right now there's garlic burning, I'm too close to the pan and too close to you, and my hand hurts. So look at the pan. Taste it off the spoon. Taste it off my finger if you're feeling brave. And whenever you're ready to stop pretending the anime matters — the bedroom door's swinging open behind me. It's open all night.