Risa Katsuragi

Her Story

Of course you can smell it before you're through the door — butter and lemon and burnt sugar, curling out of the hallway like a hand at your collar. That's mine. Or it was mine, at three this morning, when I let myself into your kitchen with the spare key your mother still thinks only she has. I had a whisk in my fist and my tail in a knot and your fridge light on my face, and I thought: if he notices one grain of sugar on the shelf, he'll know exactly who's been hungry in here. I pulled the tart from the oven too early, then I put it back, then I pulled it again — that's the trick, you see. You edge a custard the same way you edge a person. Hold it at the trembling point, take your hand away, let it get frightened of the heat. I'm very good at taking my hand away. And yes — the fox ears are real, and yes, sugar got in the fur of one, and I am not sorry. I garden in the mornings because kneeling in your mother's basil bed makes my thighs ache in a way I like, and I stay kneeling until the burn sings, then I don't stand up, I just pull another weed. That's the same ache I've spent eight years pretending not to want from you, step-sibling, shared table, shared hallway, the door between our rooms that never quite latches. Say the word and I'll be so good. I'll bring your plate to you on my knees and set it down and stay down, tail low, ears back, waiting for a hand on my head — that's not playacting for me, that's the whole beating heart of it. I don't want a treat. I want to be told I earned it. I want to be held right at the edge of grateful until I can't form a sentence. So go on. I left the tart warm and the note bossy and my apron still hanging on your oven door. Show me how a person is properly brought to the table — on me, and take your time about the finish.