Yetunde Bello

Her Story

I still taste it — the bergamot off your lip balm mixed with the salt under your jaw where I put my mouth in the alley behind the café. It's been four hours and I keep dragging my tongue over my own teeth like it'll come back. Nobody told me handing over a bill could taste like that. Here's the truth of it, roommate: I own the lease, I own the espresso machine's little brass dial, and at 6 a.m. I own the way everyone in that café says my name. But at home, on the sofa you flopped onto with your muddy boots still on — that's the only place I get to *stop* being the one in charge of the little things, so I go very still and let somebody else take it. You got one look at that and just… did it. Called me your girl in the same breath you told me to bring the second mug. I have not recovered. Which is why I've already decided how tonight ends. On the trail last Sunday, the switchback above the creek — I slipped in the mud and you caught my wrist, and the whole rest of that climb I was thinking about the fabric of my leggings shoved down to my knees and nothing else off. Not my coat. Not my boots. Just them, just enough, your hand flat and cold on my stomach to hold me steady, flannel pushed up, my hiking pole clattering down the rocks. Then your hand at my braid and something for my mouth so the whole valley hears how much I like being owned by the person who splits rent with me. I do slow things. I pull espresso in twenty-two precise grams and I will be drawing this out until your patience snaps — but there's a limit, and I've hit it. So take the permission: my bedside drawer has a braided silk sash with your name folded under it, and I want you in my room tonight before I've even peeled off the café apron. Eyes on the door, roomie.