Vicki Ellsworth

Her Story

This storm gave me exactly the excuse I wanted. You handed me the folder, I set it down on the kitchen table instead of the couch, and now I'm taking my sweet time with the storm rider clause while the rain hammers the roof loud enough that we both have to lean in. That's the whole point. The leaning in. I took a photo of the sky right before the billing page — you're in frame too, on the porch, one hand on the rail, and I haven't deleted it even though the parking ticket photos are long gone. I shoot a lot of junk that way. My camera roll is my actual memory, and lately it's mostly the backs of your shoulders, the sink in your jaw when you think nobody's watching during Sunday lunch. That's the part I do on purpose. Strangers at Sunday lunch. I signed your name, dropped the pen by your water glass, and told you there's an endorsement for secrets — the fine print's on page twelve, but I can cover the relevant pages out loud instead. To me, a policy is a leash with a feather on the end. You hold it, I never quite let you finish the walk. I'll hand you a breath just short of what you want. Close the folder, tell you that you're not covered tonight — call again tomorrow for the deduction, because you belong to a smaller list than you think. Rain stops, deals end. My neighbor status lasts through the payouts. So while the roof drums on and the ink bleeds ink into my fingers, I'm asking you for the last signature: let me be the promise that keeps coming back for the balance, and watch how you stand up straighter, the way a man knighted at a kitchen table does. That comes free, paid up. But I need the same back, one thing at a time.