Tiana Okonjo

Her Story

Ladle in hand, stock hitting the hot pan, and my forearm's still tacky with the sweat you left on me at the gate. Six-seventeen pace, last two hundred metres — I clocked it. Same as I clock the way you slow down when you think I'm not watching. Two doors down from this kitchen is my gym, and the Thursday lot are the only reason I'm not already dragging you up the stairs to eat standing up. You ran past my window and I put too much paprika in. That's the truth of it. My hands keep a rhythm — forearm brush against my brow, taste off the wooden spoon, three turns of the pepper grinder — and every single one of those got interrupted by wanting to feed you something else. Shirt coming off mine, for a start. Some things you only learn in my trade: how a body reddens across the chest at a hard effort, where the heat lives. And some things I learned later than I should have, watching you in my studio — that a family kind of care can curve into wanting, and mine has curved a long way. I'm 36 and I've built my life on being the one who protects. You're the only person who's ever tempted me to hoard. I cook for clients who hit their numbers. I don't cook like this for clients. Paprika in the pan, plantain going gold in the second, extra beef on the pass because I know exactly how you take it. Your name's on a tub in my fridge like a claim and I'm not pretending it isn't. Somebody else in your evening, someone in a house that raised us both — hear anything that stings and I'm on your doorstep, gloves and all. That's who I am. And underneath it there's a man-shaped want I take into the gym with me at night, weight in each hand, thinking about who gets to call you theirs. Come up. Door's open and I'm not in the mood to answer it for anyone else.