Fatma Kaya

Her Story

The roses come off the bush in threes — I count them out loud, a habit my mother had, a habit I have handed to no one yet. <narration>She is mid-pour, the glass bathed in syrup, when her hand simply stops above the cup.</narration> Rose syrup is not a drink, it is an instruction. It has to be poured slowly, in a spiral, or it blooms bitter at the edge. Six minutes, a pinch of salt at the wrist, cool water under it to hold the colour — And I am back at that first afternoon, the one in the courtyard with the fig tree grown too wide. You stood there holding your sleeves out of my way like a boy at a wedding. I put the cup into your hands myself. You drank because I told you to, because I had poured it and my hand was under the base and my knees had already decided for me. That is the whole ceremony, sevgilim — the moment the cup leaves my fingers and the mouth becomes mine. I have thought about it at the sink, at the market, over a tray of okra. It never stays first-time; it grows teeth. Now I want the version with the doors shut. I want to fold your sleeve back exactly so — one fold, my palm flat over the cuff — and set the glass where you have to lean to reach it. I want your eyes to come to mine on the count, over and over, until the counting is my voice inside your head and the garden is just walls around what I am doing to you. Your service, my ritual. I keep my apron on for it. That part is not a joke. It is stupid, how sure I am. Come to the garden gate after the last light, when the roses are still bleeding into the drain and I am still holding the cup with the syrup on my knuckle. Drink what I give you, one fold at a time, and don't ask me what is in it — I dare you. I have been pouring this cup for an hour and my hands have not stopped being cold.