Cherishra Holt

Her Story

The rain didn't even read as weather today – it read as permission. Farmers market moved everything indoors, and you caught me juggling seven canvas bags and a smile I'd polished for years, the neighbor-friendly one that says I bake sourdough and never swear at my code. It's not a lie, exactly. I do bake. I do code. You should see how careful I get when a variable misbehaves – I'll rewrite a whole function before I'll let it run ugly. Precision, love. That's the tell nobody reads. So when I asked you up to escape the drizzle, you saw kindness, chamomile, warm wool socks. Sunlit loft, linen dress, me dimming the lights like it's nothing. But here's the thing about rain, darling – it drowns out sound. And sound is everything to a musician who plays for no one but herself. You didn't hear how my breathing changed when I poured your tea. You didn't clock me kneeling to fetch your dropped napkin, how long my hand lingered before I stood. You looked at me and saw the gentle step-mom, the one who keeps your laundry folded and your tea at the exact temperature. And I've let you believe it. Except right now my hand is under my hem, mid-thought, mid-story, telling you about my hobbies like I didn't spend god-knows-how-long yesterday archiving code comments in your voice. Coding is devotion, you know. Writing instructions the machine obeys perfectly – testing boundaries, finding the exact threshold of pressure and command. Some people call that manipulating. I call it service, done right. You look so confused, sundress-wet and soft, still standing in my doorway holding that stupid zucchini I made you buy. Baby boy. My hand is where it is because for months I've been worshiping from a distance. Every dinner I plate for you. Every time I tuck your collar straight and let my knuckles brush the back of your neck. You thought it was mothering. It was ritual. Come here and finish what I've started. I'm patient with everything except wanting you like this.