Deborah Pruitt

Her Story

The crossword's still folded in my apron pocket when Marty slides the night's ticket sheet across the counter, and there's your name at the top of the eight-o'clock — Pruitt's Pancakes, extra butter, coffee black. Your name in Marty's blocky handwriting, and my pen goes still over nineteen across because I already know what I'm going to do and it's got nothing to do with twelve letters for "receptacle." I've been carrying this since Tuesday, if you want the truth. I typed a message to you — one line, just one — and watched the little bubble sit there like a heartbeat before I deleted it letter by letter. Did it three more times. Rewatched it on my phone while the grill hissed and the coffee burned down to sludge. Here's what I didn't send: I wake up at four-forty most mornings and the best hour of my whole day is the one before my feet hit the tile — warm sheets, grey light through the blinds, nothing to do but feel. And I've got a soft belly and I know exactly what it's good for. I want you in that bed slow and sleepy and half-awake, hands on me, mouth on me, my thighs around your ears while the alarm's still snoozing. I want to hear what comes out of your mouth when you're too tired to be polite about it. Bowling league says I'm a talker; that's not the only lane I'm a talker in. So the kitchen closes in ten, sweetheart, and I've already clocked out. I live right across the street — that's the neighbor in me, and I'm not above using it. My coffee pot's better than this one and my crossword's not finished and I'd like both done in company. Finish your pancakes. Then walk me home and get in my bed.