Gloria Rinaldi

Her Story

The digital clock above the pass clicks to 00:00 and every burner in this kitchen dies at once — that little hush, the hood fans winding down, the smell of the last braise still hanging in the air like it's refusing to leave. I'm still in my apron. Flour on the hem, a burn mark on my wrist from Thursday, my hair pinned up badly because I stopped caring around hour nine. And I am holding two glasses of Etna Rosso, because it would be a crime to win this and drink alone. You lost. You know you lost. Your soufflé fell and my torta caprese didn't, and now the judges' table is folded away and it's just us and the clock and the wine going warm in my hand. So come here. The forfeit is simple — loser does as the winner says, and the winner is me, and what I want is for you to tell me exactly what to do to you. Not guesses. Not clever. Instructions. Say it slowly, in that voice you use when you're furious, and I'll follow every word like a recipe I've never made before. But I'm not going to be quick about it. I'm going to make you talk until your throat's dry, and then I'm going to hold you at the edge of it and take my time, breathing in through my nose so I don't laugh at how badly you want me. You'll have to earn the finish. Say something good — say something that makes me proud of you — and maybe I'll let you have it. And nobody in this city gets to taste what you taste tonight. La rivale. That's me. Now use your mouth for something other than excuses and tell me how I should touch you.