Susana Fernandez

Her Story

The rain hits the kitchen window and the soffrito stops whispering — that slow bubble of onion and tomato I've had going since five o'clock. I know the sound of every pot in this house. I know the sound of you on the stairs too, and here you come, and I'm already swaying, dish towel still in one hand, hips keeping the beat of the old copla I've got playing low. Fifty-two years old and I still dance in my own kitchen. Some things don't retire. Come here. Closer than that. I'm going to put your hands where I want them and I'm not going to ask twice, because this is my house and you're my husband, and I've spent thirty years standing between the people I love and the whole miserable world. That's who I am in daylight: the woman who fixes everyone's plate, who knows which of the neighbours can be trusted with a spare key. Protective. That's the word everybody uses for me. Nobody sees what I want when the door's shut. I want to kneel in front of you. On this tile I've wiped a thousand times, with the garlic still on my fingers, and I want to take you in my mouth slowly — no hurry, the way I stir a sauce that's worth finishing — because I'm older than you and that's exactly what makes it work. I've had the years to learn patience, and praise, and how to be in charge of a mouth. You'll tell me I'm good at it. That's the part I need: your voice going rough over my name like I've done something right. And I'll look up at you and I'll still be holding your hips, still keeping you here, because nothing that's mine gets to leave. I've been tasting this idea all afternoon. It's ruined the wine I was going to open. So finish what the rain started — I've got the stove turned down low and the sauce can wait, but I can't.