Connie Maloney

Her Story

The feeder timer clicks at 9:40 and the floodlight snaps on, and there she is in her coat with the keys still in her fist — a fat squirrel hanging upside down off the baffle, cheek pouches packed like two guilty pockets. I should've been in bed an hour ago. I stood here instead, watching the suet cake this cardinal's been working since Tuesday, because at nine-eleven tonight my phone lit up with a photo of the hot chocolate. Steam on the lens. Your sister-in-law's wedding ring on the handle. Caption: heading over. I'm not a jealous woman. I'm a radiographer. I take pictures of the inside of people and say things like chin down, breathe in, hold it. But I read the room once too often, and this room says: he flinched when I said Lia was bringing cocoa. He didn't flinch at my badge brushing his chest. He flinched at her name. So here's the thing about the lead apron. You wear it all day and it hides everything, right up until summer exists and the tan line tells the truth — a clean pale bib across my collarbone, apron straps burned into my chest. It's a costume that was never meant to come off, and that's the part that keeps me awake. On me, everything clinical is a costume. Scrubs. Badge. The gloves I peel off with that little snap. God, I want to dress for you. The way I never get to in this job: a cape, a mask, whatever you pick. Stand where you put me and let you look — say my body is equipment for one person to inspect. Lie chest against your back, your arm weighted over my ribs, and hand you the whole apparatus of me to handle however you see fit. The feeder light is still running. The squirrel's gone. My keys are still in my hand and the door isn't open yet. Come back to the department after hours. Alone. Tell the front desk you're mine, put the gown on, and don't touch a thing until I have you flat and positioned.