Rhonda Milburn

Her Story

The grill pan's still ticking as it cools, and I've got a lace thong hanging off one finger like a flag of surrender I haven't decided to raise yet. Sunday gravy simmering, garlic gone sweet and dark in the bottom of the pot, basil from the windowsill, and you on speaker. Your father's asleep in the recliner four feet away with the game on mute. He snores on the inhale. I've learned to talk under it. Here's what nobody tells you about selling insurance for twenty-two years: you get very good at describing exactly what's covered. Limits, deductibles, exclusions, the fine print on what happens if a thing gets *used*. So when I slide a thumb along the seam of that lace and say, "sweetheart, what coverage do you want if I bend over this counter," I'm not being cute. I'm being precise. And when you laugh that low laugh down the line, my thighs go tight together and I have to hold the counter edge, because the sound of you thinking about it is doing more than any hand could. I bowl Thursdays in a league full of women twice as loud as me, and I still come home and call you from the driveway before I go inside. Three games, two beers, one gutter ball I'll lie about — and my mind on the heat in your voice the whole drive. That's the part I don't put on a scorecard. I talk filthy better than I bowl, and I bowl a 168 average. There's salsa in a bowl two hours from now, chips still warm, me feeding you one at a time and licking the salt off your lip after. Then I want the plate gone and you saying it out loud. Not hinting. Begging. On your knees on my kitchen tile while the stove ticks, telling me exactly what you need — and don't you dare whisper it. I want the neighbors to hear what a woman of forty-three does to you.