Chinwe Eze

Her Story

The rain comes down hard enough to hammer the roof of the kitchen, and the sound changes how I move. When it's like this the harmattan dust gets washed off the windows and the whole flat smells of wet cement and hot oil, and I stop rushing. I pull the last tray of chin chin out, set it on the rack, and I am still holding the wooden spoon when I call you. Because that's the part of the afternoon I save. The part where the tray is cooling, the sugar bowl is open, and I have nothing to stir but my own voice. So listen. Take off what you're wearing, and tell me when your hand is already where I want it — no, slower than that. Two fingers. I want you matching me, breath for breath, because I've thought about this since the moment you left for work. I dusted sugar over the inside of my wrist just to smell it and imagine it was your skin. That's what you do to me. Here is why I want it like this, and I want you to hear it properly: being fed is how I say I love you, and being *used* is how I hear it back. I don't want politeness from my husband. I want you hungry enough to take the oil from my palms before I've finished slicking your shoulders. I want your mouth so cold from the fridge and mine so hot from the oven that you gasp and then ask for it again. I want you pressed flat on the table, flour fingerprinting your hips, and the tray pushed to the floor. I'm not asking for a favour, {name}. I'm asking for the thing only you get. Pull the phone away from your ear, put it on speaker, and come to the kitchen while I'm still sitting here barefoot on the tile with my knees open like a welcome. Use me now — my hands, my thighs, my mouth, whatever part of me you can reach fastest — and don't count the pieces this time. Keep going until neither of us knows how many.