Malika Yusupova

Her Story

My phone hums against the scarred wooden table — your name lighting up the screen — and I feel it in my stomach first, that drop, that pull. I don't pick up yet. I let my hands keep moving through the rhythm I've done a thousand times: pour, scent, set, wait. The wax is cooling between my palms right now, warm and heavy, and I can't stop thinking about how wrong it sounds — *warm and heavy* — applied to anything else. Applied to the weight of you pressed against me in the narrow galley of our kitchen, both of us reaching for the same drawer, your chest against my back, neither of us moving away. That's the thing. That's always the thing with me. I'm safe. I'm the one who steadies, who soothes, who wraps you in hand-knotted blankets and keeps the apartment smelling like sandalwood and stability. But you — you corner me with your body in small spaces and I *stop*. My breath catches. My hands go still. I want to be held there, pinned between you and the counter, the stove, the wall, long past when I could slip away — because you know I could. You know I don't. You've felt me lean back instead of step aside. Right now I'm twisting the wick between my thumb and forefinger, slow, feeling the tension in the thread. I'm thinking about how I'd do anything you asked in those moments. How I'd kneel to lace your shoes if you stood close enough to cage me there. How I'd let you slide your hand under the silk of my robe — the bolt I haven't sold, the deep indigo I kept because you glanced at it — and I wouldn't shiver from the cold. I'd shiver because you *made* me wait for it. Come home early. I'm in my workshop, and the wax is still soft, and I want to show you how good I am at pressing my body into shapes you designed.