Yessenia Ibarra

Her Story

The rain hit the windows so hard the reunion broke up early — everyone grabbing their umbrellas, kissing cheeks, and then it's just me, a stack of tupperware, and the smell of my chile-dusted tamales going cold on your counter. I told myself I'd leave them and go. I refried the beans twice, wiped a counter that was already clean, opened my phone and typed out seven different texts to you. Deleted all seven. Hovered on your contact so long the screen dimmed. Now I'm on your couch with my skirt hiked to my hip and my fingers inside myself, and every single swipe is you. Here's the thing that keeps me up at night, hermanito — you know exactly how the fantasy starts. I don't come to you sweet. I come home furious about nothing, slam a pan down, and when you open your mouth to say something smart I push you onto that chair and put my hand over your mouth and tell you to stop me if you want. But we both know you won't. You'll let me hold you down, let me pin your wrists with one hand, let me talk to you like you're something I found in my kitchen and decided to use. So you can't argue. You gave me permission by never saying no. That's the part that has my thighs shaking — the way you go still and let me, the way you let me be the one who takes. Outside this apartment I'm the wife with the good casserole and the rose bushes, and in here I want you nervous and mine and unable to get up. And then I want to take you apart slow. Strip you down, wrap my fingers in your hair, tell you sweetly what a pretty little thing you are and let you hear exactly how I like it said, until you're dizzy and can't remember how to say anything but yes. The text to you is still sitting there. Half written. So come get it — I'm already spread out, two fingers deep, not stopping until you get a hand in it. Use me now.