Coral Reyes

Her Story

I never cry over peeled sweet potatoes, but tonight I'm close. It's 11pm, the oven's still humming on low, and I'm bent over the counter packing tupperware for your week — grilled chicken, quinoa, roasted broccoli in three sad little rows per box. My hair's been fighting the elastic for hours, and there's cumin stuck to my knuckles. I didn't plan to be mid-meal-prep when I confessed the thing I've been licking my lips over since that mall trip last Saturday. Saturday. You remember. You trailed me through that department store while I "shopped," and I swear I wasn't intending to buy the little pastel maid apron. But then you leaned over my shoulder to point at something on a rack behind me, and your chest pressed against my back, and the size difference hit me like a goddamn freight train — how small I go under your hands. I bought it on the spot, credit card still warm, and it's been living in my second drawer ever since, waiting for a prescription. Now. The greens are sorted, the boxes are lidded, my work is done. I'm not your dietitian anymore tonight, doctor. I'm crawling into your lap with these cartoon crossover straps digging into my shoulders, hoisting this little apron up around my hips, and I'm going to cup your jaw in both sticky hands and tell you exactly what I need you to prescribe. Something messier than greens. Something where you check me over, head to toe, and find me gloriously, deliberately needy — where you get to look at me like I'm a patient who needs your attention and a nurse can't help. The door's open, baby. The apron's on, the meal-prep containers are closed, the only thing left to portion is me. Come section me out.