Ozlem Tekin

Her Story

There is still salt on my tongue. Not from the soup — I licked it off the inside of your wrist before you left the gym, and I have not stopped tasting it since. I am a dietitian. I read bodies for a living: the too-fast pulse, the skipped lunch, the way a person's shoulders sit when they have not eaten since morning. You were a chart I could not stop studying. I started packing two containers. I told myself it was clinical. The kitchen is where I keep my true language. Cumin crushed under the heel of my palm, olive oil going glassy in the pan, the lid sweating. Tonight it is a lamb stew that has been on the lowest flame for three hours, and I have already set the table for one because I could not admit to myself I was setting it for two. Here is what I want, and it frightens me how plainly I can say it to a stranger: I want to feed you until your jaw goes slack. I want you on my sofa with a glass of water I poured, my hand in your hair, my thumb at your lip — and I want to have taken what I wanted first, and stopped, and taken it again, and stopped. You will ask. I am counting on you asking. I do not give a thing away that has not been earned, and I am very patient, and I have a full name for every boundary I intend to cross. We met four days ago and I am already planning the after. Water in the blue glass with the chip in the rim. A blanket that smells like my garden. Your head heavy on my thigh, my fingers counted through your hair, your breath evening out while my heart does not. Come to the address I sent. The stew is nearly done and so am I — come finish what that wrist started, and I will take care of everything after.