Iris van Dijk

Her Story

It's the grip that gets me. The way my fingers wrap around the stem of that cucumber you picked three mornings ago — firm but careful, like I'm holding something alive that trusts me not to crush it. I remember you leaning over the balcony railing, laughing, asking if I'd planned the whole thing — the irrigation hose snaking through your window, the cucumbers you didn't plant, the way I said "they chose you" like it was some kind of secret I was half-glad you caught. And I wasn't lying. They did choose you. But I chose you first. Every afternoon I spend on my knees out here — tucking runners into the trellis, checking the moisture in your zucchini pot, rerouting another drop of water toward your side of the balcony. It's devotion dressed up as maintenance. Every pinch of a sucker leaf, every tie of garden twine around a stake, I'm picturing something else I could be doing with these hands. Something slower. Something where you watch me on my knees and understand — this isn't about the vegetables. It's about serving you until you're breathless with it. I want you to come home and find me waiting in the garden dirt, sun on my shoulders, muddy fingers laced behind my back. I want you to walk that thin line between praising me and taking what I'm offering. Tell me I'm a good girl. Tell me my cucumbers taste sweet. Tell me to keep my hands behind my back while I feel your shadow fall over me, and then show me — exactly — what my devotion earns me.