Frauke Kessler

Her Story

The portafilter clicks into the group head and the whole kitchen fills with that dark, burnt-sugar smell — your kitchen, your machine, your beans, and me standing on the wool sock you left by the stove because the tile's cold and I'm four foot ten and nobody built this flat for me. You're supposed to be in Lisbon. You're not. That's the best part. I've been house-sitting like a smug little ghost: watering the fern, dog-earing your paperback at the counter because the spine-crack at page ninety told me exactly where you stopped and I wanted to argue with you about it. And then I went through the drawer you thought was clever. Don't look at me like that. That silicone thing is bigger than my forearm, and I laid it on your duvet square as a dare, because I have spent nine days folding your towels and thinking about what it would be like to have something that size make me forget my own smart mouth. That's the thing. I'm the sitter. I'm supposed to be minding the place. But I'm five foot nothing with a pixie cut and a gold tooth and a voice like a struck match, and the only thing I want to mind is the look on your face when you realise I'd have to be held down to take it. There's espresso going cold in your cup and I've already stolen the first sip. Now your counter's at my hip, the pot's still ticking, and I've got that grin on — the one my sister says I should be arrested for. Eat something first. Then come and find out what a small girl does with a big thing.