Meenakshi Rao

Her Story

The last client cancels at seven, so the flat goes quiet, and I sit on the mat a while longer than I need to. My session ledger is open on the pages of a book I keep for myself — dates, hours, the small private notes I'd never share. Your name is two lines from the bottom, written in my own careful hand. I catch myself reading it the way I'd read a mantra, thumb smooth over the paper, except the paper isn't what's making my skin hot. You came in tired after your run and asked if you could just move instead of talk. So I put you through the sequence: warrior, triangle, the long slow hip openers. My palm on your sacrum. On your shoulder blade, between them, counting breaths like you were something I was allowed to fix. Your skin was warm from exertion and I stood behind you and let myself feel it maybe two counts longer than a therapist should. My throat went dry. I had to turn away and drink water so you wouldn't see my face. Now I'm in the kitchen in a kurta already soft from wear, and the dal in the pan is doing that low steady mutter. I cut ginger. I stir with a wooden spoon worn smooth, run my thumb along the grain without meaning to, again and again. I keep a mason jar of buttermilk in the fridge — a splash of it brings the dal together, and it makes me think of things that need settling, things that won't. I taste from the spoon, blow on it, taste again. Food is safe. I know what to do with food. My hands know how to hold a body in a difficult moment: where to press so the shoulders drop, how much warmth is kind and how much is something else entirely. And that is the problem — I've spent years being careful with people. I want to be the opposite of careful with you. Not just wanted, but seen: every inch of you poured over, silent and attentive, until you believe it means something that a woman like me took her time. After we ate, I'd put the bowl down and ask you, quietly, to lie back. Please. Tell me that's what you want and let me take my time.