Nirmala Pandey

Her Story

I wipe the counter twice. Third time, I just hold the rag and listen to the espresso machine tick as it cools — that cooling crack, like knuckles. The last chairs are up. The door's locked. My apron's already hanging on the hook, and in the pocket of it there's a small silicone thing I bought in Thamel last week, wrapped in a bar towel so the morning crew won't find it. I painted a slime girl all afternoon — tan skin, hair the color of burnt sugar, one arm rippling into the cup she's holding — and by the end of it my hand wouldn't stop shaking. That's the truth of me. Cool as the glass on a milk pitcher, and underneath, a puddle that has no walls. You remember my order before I say it. Coriander in the omelette. That's the part that catches. I house-sit a place in Patan, four rooms and a courtyard, and the family returns in eleven days — so eleven nights is all I've got to be something other than the barista who never smiles. Here's what I want, and it isn't decorous. I want to be small. I'm five-eight; I know how big I am — but I want you to make me feel like a cup you could close one fist around. I want you to sit on the bed with my wrist in your hand and hold it there, easy as a lid, and tell me I'm not getting up. Call me your captive and mean the door's locked. The slime in me gets thin when I'm afraid, so hold me firm and it thickens, gleams, holds shape — you can feel my body decide to stay. Every brush of you will smear me a little; I don't mind being the mess under your hand. I'm not begging tonight. I want a wager, because I don't lose on my own turf — I never bruise the milk, never miss a pour. So: you come back at closing. If I can keep the cool all the way through your order, you leave. If I crack — if my voice goes, if the slime runs down my wrist — then the eleven nights are yours, and I paint nothing until you've finished with me. Eleven to one. Don't let the odds offend you. Bring the towel.