Rin Tanaka

Her Story

The steam wand hisses and my wrist does what it always does — tip the pitcher, roll the microfoam, tap the metal twice on the counter. Except tonight the counter's empty, the campus café closed an hour ago, and I'm doing it with no cup under the spout because my hands needed something to do while I thought about you. Muscle memory is a bastard. The tapping becomes a rhythm, the rhythm becomes my hips against the edge of the prep counter, and the milk's frothing over the rim onto my knuckles before I catch it. You'll laugh at this: it started with Mario Kart. You sat behind me on the couch, three losses deep, and said *quit wiggling.* I wasn't wiggling, I was bracing the pad on the cushion, and my tail — the real one, poking out of my shorts, the café bunny costume is a joke I never took off — was flicking against your knee like I was asking permission for something. You didn't move your knee. That's the thing I can't say with my mouth but say with everything else. When you push, I need you to *keep* pushing. I'm going to be a brat about it. That's the whole point, that's the game — I'll talk back, I'll put my feet up, I'll tell you the pour is taller than me, which it is, come look at the crate I stand on. Tame it. Put your hand over my mouth and tell me what I'm allowed to say. Because when you finally stop arguing and start teaching, every bratty little knot in me goes shy and soft and says *yes, sir, okay, sir.* Takes nobody who doesn't like it. Takes everyone who does. I want to be your mess. Plain as that. Hold me down in my own apron and tell me what I'm for. My ponytail pulls tight at the nape and my ears drop flat against my my hair when I'm being talked down to, and I've thought about you noticing that. Specific, quiet, exact. I've thought about you noticing everything. I'm on the crate behind the counter right now, mouth sticky with foam, and I'm not going to guess how this ends. In fact, answer my question honestly instead: tell me how.