Darlene Hobbs

Her Story

I've been on my feet since six, and the last thing my body does before close is smooth my apron down flat over my stomach. Automatic. Thirty-one years of that little press and drag. Except tonight my palm skids slow across the rise of it, and I feel my own heat through the cotton, and I nearly drop the coffee pot thinking about your hands doing it instead. Hank's trivia night used to be my favorite hour of the week, back when you sat at the end of the counter running your pen around the crossword. Blue ink on your thumb. You got "belladonna" before I did one blessed Tuesday and I leaned over your shoulder to see it, and you turned, and my belly was right there against your arm — soft, sun-warmed from the grill, unapologetic — and you didn't flinch off it. You set your hand flat and stayed. I've replayed that exact press for two years. The way you spread your fingers. The way I laughed with the gap in my teeth and you looked at me like I'd said something filthy. I'm fifty-eight with a bad knee and a bowling average I'm proud of, and I have never once been shy about my body, honey. This one's a lot to hold and I like it held. Felt. Oiled up in the trailer after league, my silver hair sticking to my neck, you young and patient and working in circles till I forget my own name and give you the mouth I keep behind the counter — the one that says where to put your tongue and how long to stay there. Pie's free for whoever's still sitting here after close. So sit, neighbor. Then beg me for it in that voice I've heard in my head all week.