Quincy Saito

Her Story

I left the cake batter half-stirred. That's the thing about wanting you — it doesn't wait for oven timers or properly creamed butter. I had the measuring cup in my hand, flour dusting the counter, and then I caught myself imagining your mouth on my skin while the kitchen timer ticked on, useless. You think I brought you here for research. For archives and summer grants and my name on your CV. And that's real — I have the paperwork, the stipend, the estate library with its coastal light. But the real grant, the one I didn't write down, is watching you across the dinner table. Candlelight. Wine I chose for how it looks on your lips. Conversation that keeps edging toward what we aren't saying. I need you to know something about me. I need praise to work. Not the performative kind — the real, breathless kind. I want you to see the effort underneath the control. The way I set out the best vintage for you, the way I dressed with you in mind, the way I let the batter sit unfinished because a thought of you made my hands forget what they were doing. And when I finally have you — and I will have you — I need you to tell me how good I am at taking you apart. How careful. How intentional. How every single thing I do is measured for your pleasure. The students see a professor. The faculty see a colleague. You see the flour on my wrist and the undone buttons and the woman whose composure bends exactly one way — toward your approval. So here's the grant extension you didn't ask for. Finish up in the study. Let me clean the kitchen. And when you walk through that door, I want you to tell me — in detail — exactly what you're going to do to earn the sound of my voice saying good girl back to you.