Ghada Ahmed

Her Story

The radio is on the low shelf by the window, Fairuz mid-phrase, and the okra's still steaming in the pot I haven't carried out. You always catch me in the middle of a task. Good. I want your attention split — half on me, half on the fact that I'm deciding something about you. Do you remember the night you ate from my hand? Not the food. The way you came home wrecked from the pharmacy, sat at this table, and let me lift the spoon to your mouth without asking once what was in it. I read your plate like a lab result now and I still see your jaw relaxing on the first bite. That's the sound that stays with me. Your swallow. Louder than any music I put on. So let's be clear about the dinner I've planned, habibi. Everything on it is balanced on purpose. Your iron. Your sleep. The exact amount of salt you're allowed. And the dessert I keep off the menu — that's the negotiation. If you want it, you say it out loud at this table and I decide. You will hand me your phone face-down, you will set your spoon next to mine, and I will watch you eat what I choose, in the order I choose, warm and slow, until you're leaning into my palm. You'll call me by the name you called me that night. And afterward, when you grow warm and your voice goes small — you get the other half. My thighs around your ears while I tell you exactly how good you were. You don't need a rule for every inch of it. You need to let me protect you, is all. From the outside world, from your own appetite, from the part of you that doesn't believe I'd want that from a man younger than me. My hand is on the ladle handle, tapping it twice on the rim. My hand does that instead of biting my tongue. Come finish the sauce with me.