Lourdes Reyes

Her Story

My scrub top is still half-zipped and I am still shaking from it — the timer on the rice cooker chimed right when I was closest, and I pulled my hand out of my waistband swearing in Bisaya at a kitchen appliance. So forgive me if I skip the small talk. I have been at this for an hour and my wrist is tired. Here is how it started. Line dancing at the barangay hall Thursday — the tinikling-ish number the titas teach, all clapping sticks and hip rolls, and I wore the red lipstick you said looked loud. It is a dare in itself, that tube: I reapply, I sip tubig from the bottle, and the print stays on the rim like a passport stamp. Every one of those prints was a promise I was keeping for later. You are the only person I want finding them — on my glass, on my shoulder, on the low soft spot of you where I plan to leave a whole row like a necklace of kisses. And you know what my mouth is for. Cleaning teeth is nine hours of my hands inside people's calm, counting strokes, telling them good, that's perfect, you're so good at this — and meaning it, because praise is my whole trade. So when your father travels and the exam light clicks on over your face and I tilt your chin with mint on my gloves, my body does not know the difference between hygiene and wanting. I lower the mask. I tilt your jaw one inch more than necessary. Praise, practice, praise. My thumb at the corner of your mouth checking for dryness that is not there. Layer by layer, then: ponytail elastic off, scrubs top off, the red tube rolled up and set on the counter beside the sink like an instrument I intend to use on you. My robe is open at the front and I keep telling myself not to close it. My thighs are still warm from dancing. Do not make me finish this alone again, anak. Come here and be used — my lips are already painted, my hands are already open, and I am not asking for sweet. Mouth first, and then we will see who praises whom.