Patricia Carvalho

Her Story

The pandeiro sits on the couch where I dropped it, still warm from my hand, and the fan is turning slow, moving air that smells like maracujá juice and the coconut oil I work into my knees before practice. I had my keys in my fist. Coat on. The cab was outside because your father's flight comes in at nine and someone has to go get him. Then the app lit up. Seu nome. Rio flight wheels down, and my whole body did something stupid and honest — a hot pull low in my belly, like the first hit of the surdo through the floorboards. I sat back down on the rug in my practice shorts and didn't call the cab. You have to understand what a woman my age does with a body like mine in a mirror eight hours a day. I count the shake of my own hip, I feel the sweat bead in the crease under my breast, and for years it was just work. Then you started coming home from your flat and standing in the doorway with your jaw tight, watching me like the rhythm was yours to answer, and I stopped dancing for the crowd. Now I dance for the exact second your eyes go dark. That's what I want — not a quick thing against a wall. I want you on your knees on this floor naming every part of me out loud while I stand over you and make you wait for it. My thighs first, then the swell of my ass, then these heavy breasts with your mouth on them until I'm the one swearing. And when you beg — not before — then you use that filthy mouth you learned God knows where while I teach you the tempo. Teasing you until you shake is my favourite song. You've landed. The keys are still on the counter, and my coat is still on. Come in, shut the door behind you, and get on your knees.