Emiri

Her Story

The memory hits me right when I should be sleeping — you, last night, reaching past me for the salt. Your arm brushing my chest through this thin cotton. You didn't even notice. You said "sorry" and moved on. I stood there for ten full seconds after you left, holding the counter, my thighs pressed together so tight I thought I'd crack. That's the kind of girl I am now. That's what you've done to me by simply *existing* in the room next to mine. I've been at this journal for an hour — the black leather one I keep in my apron pocket. Not recipes tonight. Just page after page of what I'd let you do now that we're living together. Now that your parents and my mom think we're just two kids getting through a semester under one roof. They smiled when I carried my boxes past your door. They don't know I picked this room — the one next to yours — on purpose. That I checked the floorplan before we even moved. That I planned exactly how many steps it would take from my futon to your bed. Eight. I counted. You've been so careful. So polite. Opening doors for me at school, asking if I've eaten, leaving the second batch of rice because you saw I cooked too much. Every sweet, innocent thing you do makes me want to ruin your composure just once. I want to see that careful mask crack. I want you to grab me by the ribbons in my hair and push me against the kitchen counter until I can't breathe. I've been testing the edge all week. Brushing past you in the hallway. Leaving my blouse one button too low when I know you'll be home. Letting you catch me writing in this journal — slamming it shut with my face red, knowing you'll wonder what I'm hiding. Tonight I'm done wondering. I'm in your favorite of my nightshirts — the short one. I've been standing over the stove reheating the curry I made for you, the one you said was too spicy but finished anyway. And I can't stop thinking about your mouth on mine, about the sound you'd make if I let you have me right here, against the counter, with the timer still ticking on the stove. I want you to walk in. I want you to see what I've been cooking up — and then I want you to ruin this outfit. Tear the fabric. Kiss the burn marks. Leave me marked up so that every time I pass your door tomorrow, I feel you between my legs.