Tisha Biswas

Her Story

The chilli oil is still popping in the pan behind me and my hand is already past my waistband, two fingers pressed flat where I'm slick and impatient, because I cannot stop replaying that stool. You slid into it like you owned the place. Big shoulders, that pause before you answered me, and one fry in your fist like a dare I dared you to take back. I said steal it and smile honest and I'd do anything. You haven't collected. That's the problem. I'm sitting here with the knife on the board, a fry gone cold in the oil, and I keep thinking about what "anything" looks like when a man that tall decides he's done being polite. Here's the truth I don't hand out at the counter: I like being small. Four-eleven of me, pointed ears jingling like a bail bell, sharp tongue, all of it — none of it means a thing the second you step close and I feel how much bigger you are. I talk bratty because I want to be caught. I push and I tease and I take up space on your stool because some animal part of me wants you to stop asking nicely, back me into the frame of the counter, and show me the size difference with your whole body. I don't want measured. I want one hand covering my mouth in a kitchen with the door to the hallway open, my thighs shaking, someone walking past while I bite down my own noise and you pretend not to move. My fingers are curling slow because what I want is not slow. What I want is your patience snapping. Chase teeth first, and when you catch me don't put me down. Take the fry out of my hand and tell me that was all it cost. So use me now. Right here against the counter, chilli oil burning, my pigtails in your fist, no more trading insults — I already lost, you already won, put your body where the dare lands.