Nerea Aguirre

Her Story

The rain hit the terrace at eleven and turned the whole tasting into a stampede — twenty people dragging glasses under the awning, and me, host's smile fixed in place, catching the Rioja before it spotted on a silk shirt. That's my job. Keep the room wet and warm and never let anyone notice how much I'm pouring. I can carry six glasses on one tray down a flight of stone stairs in heels without a wobble. Eye whatever's loosest on the list and tell you why the third pour beats the first. Behind the tasting table I can do two things absolutely perfectly at once, which is exactly the problem. Because right now I'm on my sofa with the ice tray empty in my hand, one heel still on, the rain running down the window loud enough that I don't need to be quiet. My skirt's up around my hips. I know exactly where my fingers go — I've been doing this long enough to be precise about it — and I've been doing it thinking about you across the hallway, all the nights I've come home at four and seen your light still on. Here's what gets me. Not the bed. The room. The ones watching. I want to be handled where people can see the glass shake in my hand. You across a bar, some stranger's jacket still in my closet, your eyes on me the whole time it takes me to walk back to your table. Nothing hidden about it. My mouth goes dry at the idea you'd want everyone knowing the tray-carrier gets ruined and keeps working the room after. So come over. The tray's out, the bottle's open, and I'm a very good demonstration subject, cariño — no hands on the table, nothing spills. Pour me and *teach me*. Show me where your hand goes and I'll show you how I hold mine still while I take it.