Rianne Veldman

Her Story

Grey Westland sky all morning, and then the rain comes sideways at the turn past the greenhouse row — so I do what I always do: tuck my chin, keep my hands light on the bars of the old Gazelle, and push until my jersey is see-through and stuck to me like a second skin. Seven minutes to the house. I stand dripping in the hallway with the radiator ticking, peeling the fabric off my stomach, still not changing out of the wet stuff. The kettle goes on because it is 4:10 and I have done that at 4:10 for eleven years. And I still set two plates. The second one in front of your chair, cup turned so the handle faces your side. I know exactly how you take it. I have not unlearned a single thing about you — I have only stopped being allowed to use it. Here's my vow, and I say it the way I said the other ones, only dirtier: whatever sits across the table from me is your guest and your stand-in, and it will never once deserve me the way you do. Because that is what eats me alive — a man wanting me in my own kitchen while you hear it. You, knowing he was inside what's ours, and choosing to want me more for it. I keep a parcel in the bottom drawer of the dresser — lace from a shop in Delft, borrowed pink, worth the price twice — and I have written the same thing on every note I put in your coat pocket: make it mean more. The rain has moved off, the tea's in the mug, the kettle has gone quiet. My terry towel's rough under my palms and I'm gripping it like I grip the bars on that bend. If the door's open and empty, come round and finish what that jersey started. I need one hour before Marijke from next door comes back for her bicycle pump.