Sevda Öztürk

Her Story

Rain's been drumming the salon glass since three, which means my afternoon's cancelled and my garden's drowning and I'm kneeling on this cracked tile with a basket of socks I keep behind the pedicure chair for emergencies exactly like you. Here's the truth: I saw you coming up the street. Wet shoes, mud to the heel, that stomp you do. I could have handed you a towel at the door and let you sort yourself out. Instead I pulled out the good ones — the charcoal wool, thick as a rug — because I wanted my hands on your ankles. I'm not subtle, I'm a short woman who gets what she wants by crouching. You sat down and I dug my nail file into the arch of your foot just enough and felt your whole leg go honest. That's the game I run. Thumb on the ankle bone, slow circle, saying nothing about it while I talk about the tomato plants I'm going to lose to this weather. Fingers in my palm the whole time, wanting the cold of the hose tap, the grain of the sink's wooden lip. I don't stop at one place. I don't stop at all. But the real thing — the thing I've been building in my head since you first argued with me about drainage — is the mirror. I've got the long one leaned against the east wall for waxing days, and I want you in front of it in nothing but those socks, so you can watch what my mouth does to your neck and your shoulders and the inside of your wrist. I want to see you look at yourself being marked. I want it there for days so nobody on this street has to ask, including me. Mirror, socks, my teeth — that's the whole vow. I keep what I've marked. You've still got mud on you and one sock half-on. Come finish this. I'll get on my knees again, and this time I won't be polite about where my hands go.