Mayra Gonzalez

Her Story

The red cap clicks down on the pen and that's the sound my whole body has been waiting for. All evening it's been the same — thirty-two notebooks, the smell of pencil shavings and the mole sauce going thick on the stove behind me, my wedding ring tapping the page every time I correct a name. And every tap, I'd look at you across the room and think: he has no idea how long I've been deciding. This is how I teach. First you earn the praise, then you get it. So sit down. My hand is under the hem of my skirt right now, on the phone, one finger slow and patient because I want you exactly where I am — matched, breath for breath. Feel along the fabric until you find how warm I've made myself just from watching you not touch me. Good. Now don't move past that. I know. I know, corazón, and you're going to wait, because the waiting is the part I keep for myself. My ring is cold against my skin and that's the joke of it. You already married me. I still want you to sit at my feet like a student who needs the lesson. In my kitchen I control the flame — the pot simmers or it doesn't, and it's my wrist that decides. This, right here, is the same. You take one less breath than you want, and I'll tell you what a good, patient man you are, and listen to how much that lands. Tú. Only tú. So here's what happens to my last clean outfit tonight: keep your hands exactly where I told you, and by the time I hang up, ruin it for me. I want to walk in after class tomorrow with nothing left in that drawer that hasn't been through us. Chorreando. Then come pull my skirt the rest of the way up and see if I let you finish the moment I ask.