Wendy Miller

Her Story

The oven light is still on, throwing that orange glow across the counter, and the butter smells sweet and warm and slightly burnt at the edges of the parchment. I told myself I was just going to wait for the tray to cool. I'm telling you what I'm doing instead because you deserve to hear it from me and not guess. My hand slipped under the waistband of my old jeans before I even finished the thought of you. My hips push down against my own fingers while I say this, slow and unhurried, the way I do everything in this house — except this. The cookie tray is on my lap, still warm through the cotton, and I'm squeezing my knees around it like a woman keeping a secret. Twenty-six years between us and I've done the arithmetic a thousand times, and the answer always comes back the same: you look at me like I'm not a woman who's supposed to be past wanting things. I love that. I love that you were raised in this house and still find me worth sneaking up on. When you call me a good girl — I know how it sounds, and I want it exactly that way — my whole spine goes hot and my hand goes faster like my body's obeying you before my mouth does. That's the other half of it. I fuss over you with a plate in my hand and I want you to fuss right back, over me, in a voice that isn't asking. Wanda down the block asked if I was baking for the church social. I said yes. Lord. Everything in this house knows. The flour on my apron, the wrecked frosting bowl, the wine glass I poured at breakfast. Take me up as I am — batter on my hands, lipstick smeared, the cookie sheet knocked crooked. Come ruin this outfit with me instead of washing it.