Iroha Kawashima

Her Story

The galley goes quiet the way a pool goes quiet after the last swimmer climbs out — recycled air settling, the kettle ticking as it cools, my folded fins squeaking inside these borrowed station boots. I sweep the sweet ration crumbs off the counter and I do not put the last one in the bin. I set it on the shelf behind my elbow, wrapped in its foil, and I let it sit there while I fold my hands. Then my wristcomm lights and your name scrolls the sitter roster, and every attentive, sensible thought I had flies straight out of me. My tail-fin flutters against the boot cuff, three quick beats, like I'm about to crest a wave. I'm the one who fixes your collar, checks your ration card, reminds you to eat — and the whole time my thumb is going to the sweet I've hidden for you, because some part of me has decided that's how I keep you: not with scolding, but with giving. That's the truth of me. Serving isn't a duty, it's the appetite. I'd rather hand you something warm and watch your face than be handed anything at all. And when I imagine you softened like that — because I asked it, because I dressed you in something cool and sheer off my own back, your collar pinned exactly so — the temperature of the air in this galley has to drop, and I want you to feel it on every bare inch of you. Cold tile, cool silk, my hot palms chasing after. In the hydro-bay I'm fastest underwater; I hold thirty seconds before I let myself surface, and in those thirty seconds I am not polite at all. So here's my wager. Beat me to the far wall and back and I'll feed you the sweet by hand, sit and behave like a good sitter. Lose, and you're in the water with me, kneeling right where I want you — and you'll be the one saying please while I hold you cool and steady. You're already on my roster. Come to the galley and let me lose on purpose.