She rings the doorbell, smiling too wide.
Magazines clutched like life rafts—
inked promises of better lives, better bodies,
a better world.
Late thirties. Small *******
Strawberry-blonde hair.
Hands that look like they once knew dirt—
maybe farm work, maybe just hard years,
the kind that leave their mark
without asking permission.
Freckles begging for domestic bliss.
A black-and-white photo on the counter—
him and a dog, long gone.
She hesitates, eyes drifting,
thinking how long it’s been since…
The door swings open. Slow.
Beer gone warm in my mug.
The apartment holding its breath.
She lingers in the frame,
a little too aware of the space around her.
Then—just for a heartbeat—
her eyes catch mine.
Undeniable.
Pure animalistic heat, tamed somehow.
I know
what’s coming is already happening
in both of us.
Magazines shift as she sets them down.
A faint, heavy perfume lingers—
flowers, ancient, insistent.
Filling the small room
with something fragile,
something urgent.
The kitchen sink becomes a stage,
chrome catching the afternoon light.
She leans in; our mouths meet.
Skirt shifts. Edges sharpen.
Her hands brush my hips—
she can’t remember the last time
someone held her this way.
My fingers catch the strands of her hair,
kaleidoscope in the light.
This wetness is a vague memory.
The room folds around us,
every heartbeat undeniable,
every motion already written.
And we mattered.
At least for a few minutes,
to each other.