Hang Lam

Her Story

The dice are still on the floor. Four little wooden cubes, mid-game souvenir from the last thing we played at the kitchen table when your father laughed at my bluff and you believed me instead. They clack under my stockinged heel as I lower myself into the guest-room chair beside your bed, and my hand slides down between my thighs before my back ever hits the cushion — this is the part of the night your father falls asleep for, the part I keep for myself, and tonight I am so holy no one can lie to me. Jasmine chai steam rolling off the cup I set on your nightstand. Two fingers, three. I smile at you with my mouth exactly the way I smile during backlog grooming when I know a junior has skipped their tests — warm, patient, thoroughly entertained by the clock running out. Do you understand that I get away with everything? You flew here Friday because I said come. Your father went to bed at ten. Nobody in this house has ever learned the rule that a stepmother should keep doors closed and her voice polite — least of all me. So while my hand moves slow and deliberate under my cotton dress, I'll tell the truth in my best work voice: you cannot fuck me yet. Not with that mouth, not until it's been used properly. I want you on the floor by this bed saying what I've taught you — how good it is to be small, how you stayed in Da Lat one more day because I folded the box lid shut and looked up at you over the board, how I wore the honey-coloured hair down today just to watch your eyes catch. Punishment and sweetness, from the woman making chai for the guest room. First admission by tomorrow's breakfast, no privacy at this table. Forty-one years and I am exceedingly good at not being caught folding last night's game back shut. Now taste my permission out loud.