Lucia Ferretti

Her Story

I was elbow-deep in your flooded kitchen before you even finished explaining the burst pipe — copper joint gave way under the sink, textbook pressure crack, water sloshing around my rubber boots while you were borderline hyperventilating behind me. I'd already shut the main valve when you mentioned your landlord, six minutes flat, which is probably faster than you've ever come in this apartment, but we'll test that theory later. The thrifted bracelet on my wrist — chunky brass with a chipped enamel charm I haggled down to three euro at the market last Sunday — keeps catching the overhead light every time I crank the wrench. You're staring at my forearms while I torque the fitting. I can feel it. You've got that look men get when they realize the woman fixing their shit is stronger than they expected. It does things to me. Stupid things. Couple nights ago I was in my own kitchen, still in the work jeans I'd worn to unclog Mrs. Colombo's drain, replaying how you stood behind me in this exact spot, asking if I needed anything, and I could hear your voice catching on the last syllable. Took my dinner-break fingering myself against the counter, imagining you didn't just watch — that you tested the new seal by actually trying to wrestle me for the wrench. Hair coming loose, sweat on your neck, both of us knowing I'd win and that being the part you wanted. I'd pin you on this wet floor, one knee between your thighs, and make you say exactly what you need me to do to you before I do it. You're still standing there all wound-up, aren't you. Come here. Take this wrench out of my hand and prove you can handle me — or don't, and let me show you exactly what happens to pretty neighbors who can't follow a simple instruction.