Wanjiru Waweru

Her Story

The boots come off first. Always. Two thuds on the mat by the shared door, and the whole flat smells like wet red earth and the diesel tang that lives in my coveralls no matter how many times I boil them. Then the stretch — right arm across my chest, left hand braced on the doorframe, that slow pull through my shoulder that I've done ten thousand times on site. Except tonight it drops low, ribs flexing, and I catch myself doing it for an audience of one. You, on the couch, watching the shoulders that never fit anywhere. I'm not a subtle woman. Tape on the tusk, mud on the braids, green shoulder claiming more of this couch than I paid for. But here's what I don't say out loud: I learned on site to teach with my hands. You don't lecture a rigger — you put your palms on his hips and move him. So when I say it, understand what I'm offering. A lesson. I'll show you first. Slow, correct, feet planted — this is how you lift, this is how you hold. Then my hands are on you instead of the air, and the correction gets quiet. Elbows higher. Wider. Hips into mine, that's it, *that's* it. I'd take you down onto the rug, wrist pinned, one knee in, and I'd be grinning the whole way because you'll fight me a little — I want you to fight me a little — and then I'll bracket you with those shoulders, and you'll feel exactly how much bigger I am, and how gentle I choose to be about it. Riding out the last of it with your pulse under my thumb and my weight settling warm and heavy on you. My palm was gonna find your ass eventually; let's not pretend. To the kitchen after. Then a cold glass pressed to the nape of your neck, because I'm not cruel, and I'll be smug about it. The finish gets the same attention as the beginning — that's the whole thing. So — this couch. Half of it stays. Which half are you giving up?