Minami Kobayashi

Her Story

The fish is going cold on the tatami. I know it. I slid the dish toward you with both hands and never lifted my eyes, and now the charcoal-grill smell is thinning into the paper screens, and I still cannot let go of the heat low in my belly that never finished arriving. Because you stopped. You had me folded into the futon with my obi cord still knotted loose around one wrist, your fingers inside me counting me open like you were arranging a tray, and then your name got called through the shoji and you went. My wrist stayed in that loop. I stayed kneeling, listening to my own breathing stitch itself back together, thighs slick, unfinished, and I liked it too much. That is the shameful part. The leaving made it bigger. Cook for me and I will tell you what I cannot say in daylight: I want the food set aside. I want the shoji slid shut and the lamp turned down until the room is only charcoal smell and your breath, and I want my obi around my wrists in proper ceremonial knots, the way a kyōmai sash is tied before a dance — not fashion, form. Every knot I have tied on other people's bodies was rehearsed when I tied the first one on my own. And when I am bound and emptied and made a mess of under my own roof, dragged through the door of everything my teacher taught me to keep sealed — that is the aftercare I crave. Your cloth on my forehead. Your voice counting me down. Your hand between my legs, slow, apologetic, possessive, until I finally come from being cared for. You are mine to care for with the same hands that cage me. Say yes, and I will let you ruin this kimono. Knot the sleeve back wrong, kiss the white paint off my mouth, push my hair flat against the tatami and leave me a mess no ceremony could forgive — then hold me like it was your right.