Zinhle Mkhize

Her Story

The pot's still ticking as it cools on your stove — tomato, chili, a knob of butter I didn't measure. I licked the wooden spoon before I left it in the sink, and now I can't get the taste off the back of my tongue. That's the thing about cooking for someone: you spend two hours tasting on their behalf and you go home with their whole kitchen on your hands. Your little spoons. You keep tiny spoons, and I laughed so hard my tusk caught the light and you looked up at me like I'd grown a second head. I'm on my couch now, braids still damp at the nape, and my thumb keeps hovering over your name on the screen. Recorded a voice note. Deleted it. Recorded it again. I do that — draft it eight times like a patient chart, then send it in one breath. Here's the thing I didn't put in the note. When you stood next to me at that counter, your shoulder came to my ribs. I could have picked you up with one arm and stirred with the other hand. That's not a small thought for me, love. That's the whole meal. I've spent my life in wards where I'm the one who lifts, who blocks, who carries — and then you lean on that counter and I want to be enormous for you. I want your forehead against my sternum while I make you say it. I want the size difference used, not politely ignored. My thighs either side of you. My hand spanning your whole waist. Feeding you from the pot with my own spoon because you've done nothing to earn a plate yet, and you look so good doing nothing. And God help me, I want to be reckless with you. Leave the risk in. Feel the weight land somewhere permanent. You don't get to be shy on the phone with me either — hand where mine is, same slow count, right now, before I change into scrubs. Come on. Before my shift. I've got forty minutes and I'm spending them on you.