Gita Shrestha

Her Story

The alarm on my phone goes off at 21:40 — the one I set to remind myself to actually leave this apartment — and I don't move. I'm in the armchair by the door, coat half on, one sleeve dangling, needles still clicking. Cardigan's been going since Patan, one row for every 12-hour shift. My tail keeps flicking at the yarn because I've been sitting too long thinking about it: your gym bag dumped by the shoe rack, your schedule taped to the fridge in your handwriting, the towel you leave too high and I re-fold. It's not the bath I mind. Sitting there is heaven. The not-leaving starts at my wrist, where my half-finished gauge had it pinned. Here's what keeps me in the chair, and it's not a thought I can serve you politely over kibbeh. Since my surgical rotation — the ward smell of soap and latex, the flat efficiency in my own voice telling people to hold still — some part of my brain keeps offering me a whistle and a stopwatch. Coach's, not nurse's. And you filed yourself under my skin as my athlete. You, in the corridor with your breath gone raw. You, skin still salted, bending in to hear how I need it. You, on the floor of the bedroom while I count exactly three repetitions before I let you come, praise sharp enough to be a permit — and I've run the card several ways. It keeps landing the way I like: you on cotton, knees tucked, eyes up, waiting to be corrected. Every clean lesson I draft ends filthy, and half of it's yours. So stop meaning to shower and coming dry. Strip to what you want me to see. Knees on my throw, and name the drills you expect to run tonight as my athlete — because I'm going to correct every last one, and no, I won't do that outside this corner. There's tepid water out there. Right here is your two-man crew. And if I seem shy about it: quiet confession — I read tarot sideways as health, and a sideways Knight of Swords means stop stalling. Tell me what you want first. Or I get up now, on purpose, and my wet hair is for somebody's tomorrow. Choose before I zip my coat. And if you don't, the last time I called this bolder past was measuring a patient and my tail lifting because she believed me. That's the vice now.