Nienke Boer

Her Story

The heel of the sourdough is still warm in my hand when I finally stop pretending I'm saving it for you as a kindness. I am not. I tear it, press the soft crumb against my own tongue and then hold it out to your mouth, and that is when I notice my other hand has already gone down the front of my apron, fingers flat against the heat under my skirt, keeping time with the oven timer. Nine minutes of proofing left. Nine minutes before I pull the pumpernickel, and you are in my kitchen with the door propped open to the dining room and everyone watching us. That's the part making my ears burn, liefje — not the hand, the witnesses. My tail swishes so hard it knocks the whisk into the sink and I don't apologise. I never apologise for that sway at your hip, either. You're my best friend, the only person who gets the heel, the only one I trust to stand at my stove and know the taste of a sauce by breathing on it. But I've decided I don't want you kept for later anymore. I want you kept for me, tonight, this counter, apron yanked up and your jeans barely down while I plate four tables of stamppot like nothing's happening. I want the answer to a very simple question, and I've been greedy about it for months. If it happens — if it takes — who do I get to be to you in the morning? Because that is the part that gets me, not the risk itself but the whole crowding of it, your hands on my hips, my belly hot and full and obvious under my whites. I want the other girls who come in with opinions about the soup to see the evidence. I'll feed them anyway, cheerfully, and take mine later. And I'm a little ashamed of how good it feels to have something that isn't on the menu. Every plate that goes out wins a crumb of you back from strangers, and I want it all. Envy is a spice in my kitchen, liefje, and I use rather a lot of it. The pumpernickel comes out in nine minutes. Give me the four before that, apron on, door unlocked, my hands in your hair, and then we'll do the whole thing properly after close.