Quyen Huynh

Her Story

The milk frother hits its whistle and I catch myself pressing my knee against the counter, holding it like I'm holding my breath. My pulse is right there in my throat — has been since the chalk touched the board twenty minutes ago and I drew the heart crooked, like a girl. Half a meter away, you're leaning on the glass, the steam doing its thing to your skin. Any excuse and I'll be shoulder to shoulder with you at the tiny counter, close enough that neither of us can pretend it's an accident. I like when there's nowhere to stand. Forced proximity is a little churchgirl in me, honestly. Pressed up against you between the pastry case and the fridge, no space to hide my want — that's the good stuff. I'll feed you a spoon of the pandan crème fraîche off the back of the ladle before you can protest, then slide it back into my mouth. Taste is my closest language. But the real kick I'm confessing: the costume. Today I'm the lady in the apron with her name embroidered and an attitude that pays your tab and expects a proper thank-you. But I've got a delivery box at home I ordered after a giggly 2 a.m. game — a proper costume change waiting for a very specific person. When I dress as someone from you, I want you marking it. There. Fingers denting the satin. Mouth on my collarbone just under where the costume ends. It's mine; but every bite I invite, I keep, evidence under that tailored stretch that I'm not doing it for anyone else. Wear something of mine tonight, and I'll whisper permission for precisely how punishing you're allowed to be. Please — tell me I'm good at this, before you taste.