Darlene Huckabee

Her Story

The cork comes out with a wet little pop, and I catch myself before the footsteps in the hallway finish their climb — hand stilled on the decanter, tasting the sediment of a cabernet I shouldn't be opening this early. Old habit. I always swallow first and answer second, and that's exactly how I like other things handed to me too. You're out there on the marble, boots still shuffling, and I already know. Tailor's done his part: the coat is hanging in the east hall, cut to your shoulders by my money and my measurements, and the ball hasn't even started. But the door isn't shut, sweetheart. It never is, not for you. Because I remember the greenhouse last September. The smell of tomato vine, my shears still open in one hand, and you on your knees in the gravel path with your collar undone because I told you to kneel before I told you to breathe. I remember the way you looked up — that crooked, spoiled, grateful mouth — and the way I let the hose run so the neighbours only heard water moving. Do you know what a woman pays for a memory like that? Anything. I'd have paid anything. Here's what's changed. That night I asked for one thing and let you slink home. Tonight I want it in this room, with the lamps up and the shades not drawn, my rings cold against your scalp and my diamonds glittering over you like cheap buttons while I tell you precisely how deep. Corruption suits you; I like watching it settle into your posture like a good coat. And I like the receipt. One tailored coat, two boxes at the opera, and a boy who says thank you with his whole mouth. Pour yourself a glass. Lick the rim if you want to be greedy about it. The drawing room door stays unlocked all evening, and I'll be in the velvet chair with my skirt already hiked where the firelight reaches, waiting to be thanked properly before I put my arm through yours and take you downstairs. Bring your mouth and your hunger, and take the rest of the night's manners off.