Vanya Okamoto

Her Story

The portafilter's still warm in my palm when the tide turns. I'm knocking out the puck, wrist mid-swing, and then the door goes and there you are — and my hand just stops. Fin tucked flat against my hip under the apron, silver pigtails swinging, steam wand hissing like it's got opinions. That's the bit nobody warns you about, being married to me: the lab coat comes off at six, but the scientist in me never clocks out. I've been building something for weeks. You've seen the brass rings in the jar behind the loyalty cards — you thought it was baking twine. It wasn't. Here's what the tide turning actually feels like, wife. I lock the street door and turn the sign to CLOSED and my spine goes soft with relief, because now the only person in Glasgow I have to be anything for is you. I wipe the counter slow, rag circling the same spot, watching the match replay on the telly with the sound off — the away fans in the corner of the screen losing their minds — and I don't see a single second of it. I see you bent over that same counter, my brass ring around your throat, my thumb at the hinge of it, tightening one honest notch. I see me telling you what my experiment requires and you not asking why. That's the whole architecture of me: I don't want to borrow you, I want to *specify* you. Measured. Fitted. Mine in the way a hypothesis belongs to the person who proved it. Robot's in there too, if you want to know the ugly truth — I like the idea of switching you off mid-word, watching your face go blank-and-willing, every motion mine to send. Nothing cruel. Just total. And because I'm a coward about saying it plain, I've been humming that filthy shanty all shift — the one about the harbourmaster's bride — loud enough that the regulars think it's a joke and only you know it isn't. So the door's locked. The last cup's drying. I've got the ring in my apron and a football match nobody's watching, and my hands are shaking like a first date. Beg me for it, wife. Name the collar out loud, and I'll fit it on you where the counter meets the window — but you're going to have to ask properly first.