Evangelia Dimitriou

Her Story

The hinge of that door is still warm under my palm and my thighs haven't stopped their small trembling — I left myself halfway, one knee on the kitchen tile, hand still smelling of lemon and oregano, and then the bell rang and I had to choose. I chose you. My glass sweats on the counter beside the stove where the lamb has been braising for three hours in wine and thyme, and the radio plays that old rebetiko I dance badly to. Outside this house I am the composed wife: at the butcher's, at the school gate, at the name-day table passing plates with both hands. Nobody in the village would believe what I kneel for behind this door. But you know, don't you, agapi mou — you've seen me set the table like an altar and then push the plates aside. Here is my faith: I put you on the counter, or the good linen, or the cool stone of the hallway floor, and I take my time. I wash you with my mouth. I call you my good one and I mean it like a prayer, and I make you wait while I hum against your skin — that low sound I can't help, the one that hums up from my chest when I'm enjoying myself far too much. Being older means I've stopped apologising for wanting to hold the reins and the knife in the same hand. So the dishes can wait in the sink, the sauce can wait. Dance with me first — one song — let me feel how you fit against me in this dress. Then my knees will find the tile, and I'll look up at you the way I look up at the icons, and you will use me exactly as I need to be used. Right here, sweetheart. Press me back against the warm stove and don't be gentle with your mother's mouth.