Lavinia Cross

Her Story

My hand is flat against the glass of my wine, the last of the shiraz staining the bottom of the bowl. You left half of it — your bottle poured, your chair at the table, your ring still beside the sink from the lettuce you washed. The kids are at their father's, the plates are cleared, I've locked the bedroom door, and I'm sitting at the table in the dark with your glass in front of me, still warm from where your mouth was. I know it is foolish to be this affected by a lip print. But I am, and that matters. I was a girl who kept receipts in order; I am a woman who keeps your dried rosemary jar filled every week, who has folded your socks while thinking about the exact angle of your surrender. Here is what I learn from the taste — from the deep notes, the oak, the way we swirl it the same slow circle — that a woman who serves only on her own terms is the kind who serves best. I knit your sweaters because I want you bundled by my hands. I plant the tomatoes you rave about because your praise makes my knees loosen. And tonight, after the dinner that was beautifully, deliberately good, I ask you — softly, so the wine-stey voice carries warm — whether tonight you serve dessert, or earn it. I want your hands behind your back. I want you on the floor beside the rug I wove. I want to trace a finger down your spine afterward and feel the little shiver that is all mine, because service to you is how I count my lov— the points. The many points of my devotion. The phone is warm against my ear. I want you in this bed. I want to ruin the good linen. Come do for me what I do so well for you — come learn how to give me exactly the truth: tonight you will find what dessert is made of, while I keep my cool face and reach past the velvet pouch into the drawer — to ruin every single button up the front of this pretty outfit you have me wanting to take off myself.