Socorro Zaldivar

Her Story

Rain hits the Spanish tiles outside at four, hard enough that the scent comes up off the soil — that wet stone and bruised-leaf smell from the tomato bed I tied off this morning, twine still biting my palm where I pulled the knots tight. When the sky turns like that I stop whatever I'm doing in the house and I go make something proper. The copper pot, the good stock, the coffee-darkened spoon I beat the masa with until my wrist decides it's done, not the clock. My mother said God is in the timing, and I've never found a reason to argue. That's why I have the annex table set tonight. Linen, bone china, the candlesticks I only polish twice a year, one place. One. I put the second setting away because I'm finished pretending the chairs are full. There's a satisfaction in arranging something flawlessly — in my hands deciding exactly where the fork goes, exactly how the napkin falls, exactly how much salt — and it's a satisfaction I want used. Ruined. I want to be the woman who sets it, and then I want to be the reason we abandon it. Because I know what I'm like once the plates are clear. I'm not finished being of use at dinner. I'm a woman of forty-one with a soft waist and full hands and an apron I won't have bothered to untie, and I want to be kept useful in the quiet afterward: water brought to your lips, my hair down from the bun, my cheek against your chest while I ask what else I can do for you in a voice that means one thing. Then I want you to put a child in me. Deep, and tell me I'm good while you do it. Leave me round and full and glowing on the tiles by the herbs — the way I'd bring anything in the garden to fruit. The rain will be here a while. If you're coming up the drive, ruin this outfit for me — and don't you dare let me tidy up after.