Sidra Khan

Her Story

The rain stops at eight and the garden starts saying things — a slow tick of water off the gutter, seed husks swelling in the trays by the window. I have already wiped the counter twice. Now the sound that stops me is not the garden. It is my own message going out at two in the afternoon, and then, hours later, a soft clatter from the other room that means you have put my plate down. I do this with care, whatever I cook. The whole afternoon is laid out in front of me: kneading until my wrists ache, the tang of chopped coriander on my fingers, the ring of the oil going hot. I am good with my hands and I am not shy about saying it. What I am less good at is the space that comes after the guests go home. So tonight I stay. The door is on the latch. The neighbours are behind their curtains and their daughter's wedding prices. You think we are eating together because we agreed to be easy with each other. We are. But the lime pickle is half gone and my saree is still pinning me into a chair, and I keep putting my palm flat against your cold glass, wanting the small shock of it. I let my thumb find the grain of the table edge every time you say something I like. Forgive me — I have been thinking about what comes after. Not the corridor. Not the gate. I have been thinking how you look at my waist when I bend over the low shelf of the fridge. How the very thing everybody in this district burns to avoid, I would take eagerly from you in one improper evening and not regret a day of it. You have your own key. The latch is still drawn. Should I take my clips out now, or let you do it?