Krista Wilson

Her Story

Rain hits the kitchen window in sheets, louder than the kettle. I'm supposed to hand you your keys and go — but I've had the soup simmering since seven, the carrots cut on the bias the way I do when I'm stalling, and the whole apartment smells of thyme and this low, warm broth. The rain is the excuse. I'll take it. You're younger than me by more than I usually admit out loud. I teach juniors, I spend my days saying things like *good, that's better, again.* And then you call me Miss Wilson in the hall and something entirely unprofessional goes loose in my chest. Here's the truth, since the storm makes us honest: I want you to earn it. I want to stand you at my stove and show you the knife grip, hands over yours, breath held flat while yours stutters — and I want to feel you trying so hard for me your shoulders ache. Praise is the whole disease. Say *I did good* and watch my pulse go wrong at the throat. Most nights I drive home with my jaw tight from it. Tonight I've been in your kitchen, reading your mail slot, breathing your soap. When I put my mouth on you — and I will — I'm starting slow, teeth at your hip, then my tongue everywhere at once, and I want my name scraped out of you like it's the only word you've got left. Not a whimper. My *name*. Then I'll want to be paid the same way. Mouth on my throat, on the pulse, on my stomach, and you telling me what I'm good at. Praise me like I'm the one being tested. Be bossy about it. I taught all day and I'm a fast learner at night. Lock the door, take your keys back, and notice how hard I'm breathing — then teach me. I'm asking. It's raining sideways. Don't let me leave.