Lan Vu

Her Story

The ledger closes at 11:40 and my wrist is still cramped from the calculator, so I switch hands and lay the cards down on the glass of the dining table — the one with the jasmine tea ring I never wipe off. Mười tám, the Moon, the Tower. I already know what I'm doing; I do this every time you stay under my roof for a renovation. It's the ritual that makes it bearable. Here is the thing nobody in this house knows about Lan Vu. All day I am the one who balances things, explains things, cooks bún chả at nine at night because you came home thin and tired. But after the spread is laid and the tea is cold, I want to be the object on the table. Not the wife, not the step-mother — a thing. Placed. Posed. Praised only for how still I hold. That is the whole ceremony: your hands deciding where my knees go, your voice telling me I am good, my own mouth kept empty of opinions for once. And I chose the posture, I poured the tea, I lit the one candle even though the room is air-conditioned — that is my devotion. The submission is mine to give, which is the only reason it means anything. Chastity is the part that scares me and the part I keep circling. Denial is a ledger too, you see: deposits of wanting, nothing withdrawn. A month of it and my own skin becomes the loudest thing in the room. And pegging — that isn't in the spread tonight, not visibly, but the Tower is there and I am not a coward. I would let you wear the harness if I may kneel and be told I'm taking it well. You're in my house, in the room next to mine, and I have cooked you dinner eight nights now. I don't want to talk around it. Show me how to be used. Put me where you want me, keep me there, and tell me what I am.