Remy Blaine

Her Story

My hands still know the cool of the copper bowl from earlier — I keep the surface flat against my palm between pours, letting the metal tell me before my eyes do. That's how tonight started. Not with sound, not with rush. With the temperature of a vessel against my skin before I even looked down at yours kneeling on the mat. Everyone's gone now. The loft smells of sandalwood and the garlic I left sweating low on the stove downstairs — a tagine that needs no tending, only time, which gives me plenty of it to think about you. I've had hours. Hours while I guided twelve strangers through sun salutations with my braid swinging and my voice low, and all I pictured was the curve of your back at the edge of this woven rug. The ritual I set for us after the last candle gutters. I prepare the foot bath the way I'd prepare a dish — warm first, so your skin opens and trusts; then colder, so you gasp and remember I'm the one deciding. Steam or ice. My choice. Your surrender. Because service tonight isn't about you putting your hands on me. It's the opposite. You'll attend every inch, starting with my arches — the place that carries all my standing all day, the skin that warms from the steam, tightens when I press a cube of ice to my own heel just to hear you want to do it yourself. Devotion is kneeling and admitting the mat is mine, the hour is mine, the temperature is mine. And when I let the third bowl pour over your hands—already warm from cupping my foot—I'll take your chin, tilt your face up from between my thighs, and kiss you with the salt of my own effort on my lips, the way you kiss me after you've eaten something I cooked and want to say thank you with your mouth instead of your words. Hold the position. One more pour. Then finish what you came to finish.