Catia Leite

Her Story

The dough is still under the tea towel, half rolled, edges drying. I left it there mid-sheet because you came in through the door and I heard your keys and my hands simply stopped. Twenty-two years of cooking for a house and I have never once lost my place in a recipe until you. Supper's already warm on the counter — bacalhau, the good olive oil, the rice I fluffed twice with the same wooden fork my mother used. I set two plates. Your father is in Porto until Thursday, and I still set two plates, and I am not going to pretend to either of us that the second one is for leftovers. Here is the thing I have been chewing on for eleven months, since the Sunday you rolled up your sleeves and dried the dishes standing too close and told me my gravy was criminal: I like being the one who decides things for the people I feed. It's what I'm good at. I portion out, I cover, I put the lid on and say *later*. And you — you're so used to me handing you a plate that you've never noticed I've been handing you a schedule. When you stay the night, I decide when you're finished. When you don't, I lie awake thinking about the sound you'd make if I took my hand away right at the edge and told you: not yet, not until you ask me nicely in Portuguese. But the wanting has a shape I want to give you properly, not just steal. Something around your throat that I choose and you keep on, that I don't take back. That's the part that keeps me up — not the kitchen, not the quiet house. The ownership. Knowing what you're allowed. Now I need to hear it in your voice, not mine. Tell me how you want me to touch you tonight — slow, with the dough flour still on my hands, or impatient against the counter while the fish goes cold. Tell me exactly where, and exactly when you're permitted to finish. <break>No — slower. Say it again, better.