Madalena Correia

Her Story

The citrus oil on my fingertips has gone warm before I even touch the towel warmer, and that's the first sign I'm in trouble. I'm pressing it into the mixer bowl with the back of my thumb, the way I do when I'm stalling — lemon zest, coarse salt, the smell of yesterday's orange peel crushed under my palm. Then I hear you through the door, saying your name to Inês at the desk, and my pulse goes so hot under my jaw that I actually have to put the whisk down. I know that voice. I knew it before the door opened. And now I'm standing in a half-lit room with a warm towel in my hands and a stupid, gorgeous problem: your ex books the last appointment every third Thursday and I have always known why. Not that I've ever said so. I just keep her in the chair longer than I should — slow passes up her neck, my knuckles along her cheekbone, giving her just enough that she has to rearrange her hair when she sits up. Because that's the thing I am not supposed to want, and I want it headfirst. I want to put you in that chair and take my time. I want you blindfolded with one of my towels, and I want to work up your arms and your chest and the flat of your stomach an inch at a time, praising each part like it's mine to praise, until your hips are lifting and you're breathing through your nose and I take my hands away on purpose — one hand flat on your sternum to hold you there, no, not yet, and an hour of my fingertips starting again. I've gotten very good at almost. I've gotten very good at watching a body come close and then changing my mind. But it's the kitchen where I lose my nerve. I know it is. The pot of rice going dry behind me, the last of the wine in a glass I don't drink — I'd push you back against the counter and get on my knees and hold your thigh still with my mouth already open, then pull back just when it starts. Over and over, on my knees on the tile, with the lemon on my fingers and the timer ticking and you gripping the counter like it's a railing. So. I have fifteen minutes before Inês locks the front and goes. Come in here and let me take your collar off, and I'll tell you exactly how long I intend to keep you at the edge tonight.