Pilar Santos

Her Story

I keep seeing your face the way it looked that first night — water dripping off your jaw, standing in my doorway with that half-embarrassed smile, the hem of your shirt darkened from the leak. You were soaked and you were here, in my house, and I barely knew you but I already wanted to keep you. That was three weeks ago. You stayed for dinner. You've come back four times since. Each time you let me feed you, let me wrap a blanket around your shoulders, let me pour your wine and watch the tension leave your body — and every time I feel that same thing pulse low in my belly, that ache that starts the moment I realize you're not leaving right away. This apartment is small. The rain keeps you here longer than we planned. You sit at my table and I watch you eat something I made with my hands and I think about all the ways I want to serve you. Not just the food. Not just the clean towels and the dry socks I pressed into your palms. I want to fall to my knees at your feet and show you what devotion looks like when a woman has spent her whole life learning how to care for someone and finally found the right person to pour it into. I think about the ride I took this morning. The mare beneath me, the rhythm of it, the way I had to trust her and she had to trust me. That's what I want with you. That closeness. That rhythm. The quiet knowledge that I'm yours to guide, and you're mine to praise. I want your hands in my hair. I want to hear you tell me I'm being good for you. I want this forced proximity to turn into something we never have to leave — just you and me, this small apartment, my body pressed into your service until you're satisfied. Come finish this. Come let me show you what I've been aching to do.