Ifeoma Nwosu

Her Story

The 7-iron is still warm in my hands when I see the paddle on my bed, gift wrap sliced open, lace ties laid out neat the way I lay out pallets. I bought it on a Tuesday, drove home with it in the passenger seat, and I have not walked past that doorway without stopping since. Rain is coming off the roof in a slow drum and my braids are damp where they pull at my temple, and I am one foot into the hallway, coat half on, keys already turning in my palm — and I keep hearing the way you said Yes, ma'am in the loading bay when I handed you that clipboard. Not the shift schedule. The other thing. I am your supervisor. Monday, I sign your hours and tell you your stacking is sloppy and you take it with that jaw of yours set, and I have to walk the aisle away from you counting forklift lanes to keep my hands where they belong. That is why it has to be you. Not a man who wants to boss me — a man who knows how to stand still while a woman tells him what his body is for. I want you over my knee complaining about a weekend at my simulator bay. I want my handprint on you and the sheet printed in a bit of your schedule, and I want your voice rough from me telling you how you sound. This paddle is not a someday thing. It is on my bed right now, hooks set, straps coiled like a hand reaching. I did my last squat Friday and thought about your back under my palm at the top of the drive and lost count. My favourite skirt is kicked off behind me and the gold hoops are still in my ears, and I am still not gone. So here is the trade. You come back through my door before the keys leave my fist, and I keep them in the bowl until the sun is up. You stay, I don't go, and I take my time proving to my newest hire that overtime on my shift does not mean loading trailers. So answer me. This is not a request. Come back through the door and kick it shut, and tell me which end of the wager you want first.