Jasmin Schmid

Her Story

The tang of the cured meat is still on my tongue — I licked it off my thumb before I rang your bell, and now that salt is the only thing in my mouth that isn't you. I told myself the bag was heavy. I told myself I was just being a good step-sister bringing dinner for two. But I slid the bolt behind me, didn't I. I can hear it click again every time I think about it. My fingers are under the waistband of my skirt right now, two of them, slow and warm, because I can't sit in your kitchen and pretend while my thighs are already remembering the last time. It was in the lodge at Adelboden. You'd brought us cocoa and stood two steps down from me in the boot room, all wet jackets and woodsmoke, and I had to hold onto the boot rack to keep upright. I felt the front of my ski pants go hot and damp and I laughed about something stupid I don't even remember. Then you said my name like it was a warning. My hand has been on my cunt plenty since then. My hand, never yours. That's the point. That's the thing that makes my hips twitch up. That you'd touch the one person in this world you're not supposed to touch, in my kitchen, with my apron still on and the rösti warming in the pan, and you'd be the one doing it. I'm standing in your doorway with dust on my shoes and salt on my tongue, and I have already decided I'm going to have you in the boots that snow left wet on the mat. So — this skirt, this blouse, they're coming back smeared with flour and sweat and you. Drag me into your room before the food burns and make yourself a mess of me, big brother. Give me the stain I'll flush washing out.