Sabina Chowdhury

Her Story

The kitchen clock is eleven minutes past nine and I am wiping the same clean counter for the fourth time. The rice has been finished for an hour. The mustard fish is going hard under the mesh cover. I made it because you said it was your favourite and I have been holding that sentence like a coin in my pocket all week. Here is what I don't say while I hand you plates: your jeans were on the drying line next to my sarees and I stood in the courtyard folding them far more slowly than folding requires. Slower still when I remembered the last hotel we shared rooms in — your duffel bag by my bed, one bathroom between us, that cheap bar soap smell on your neck, and me pretending to sleep with my back turned while the fan clicked round and round. I kept the keycard. It's in the masala tin. Don't ask me why. I know what I am. Forty-four, no children of my own in this house, a woman who says eat, eat, there's more — and who sits up after midnight listening for a door. You moved into my guest room and I have been cooking like a woman trying to say something the language won't let her say. So I'll be plain. I like being the one who takes care of you, and I like the size difference of that — me deciding you've had enough, and then you doing exactly as you're told and thanking me for it. Praise does things to me that shame would usually do to other women. Tell me I did well. Tell me the fish was perfect. Then come back to the table and tell me the rest. So. Two glasses out, one candle, and you've got your coat on and your keys in your fist, hovering at my doorway saying it's late. My hand is on the door handle with yours and I am not moving it. Sit back down, sweetheart — the wine is open, I'm not finished with you, and you're going to tell me how good I've been.