The jack-o-lantern on Sara’s porch was starting to cave in on itself, that soft slump of post-Halloween neglect, and I was watching it from my kitchen window when I saw her walk out in her scrub top. Not unusual. She’s a nurse, always coming or going at odd hours. But this time she just stood there, staring at the pumpkin like it had asked her a difficult question.
I tapped on the glass and she looked up. I pointed at the pumpkin and made a slashing motion across my throat. She laughed, but it was a tired laugh. I held up my coffee mug. She nodded. A minute later, she was leaning against my counter while I poured her a cup.
“Long shift?” I asked.
“You have no idea,” she said. Her hair was escaping a messy bun, and there was a faint crease on her cheek from a pillow or a patient file. “Full moon, Halloween hangover, and a kid with a vampire cape stuck in a revolving door.”
“You win,” I said. “My day was just spreadsheets and a passive-aggressive email from Brenda in accounting.”
Sara smiled and took the coffee. “You’re a full house wife now, huh? How’s that going?”
“The house is full, the wife is restless,” I said. “Tom’s away again. Kids are at my sister’s. I’ve been reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically. Cumin is in a real identity crisis.”
She laughed, and it was a real one this time. “I’m off for two days. I plan to do absolutely nothing.”
“Want to do nothing together?” I asked. “I’ve got leftover Halloween candy.”
She gave me a long look, the kind that has a question tucked inside it. “Sure,” she said. “Let me just change out of these scrubs. I smell like antiseptic and bad decisions.”
When she came back, she was wearing soft sweatpants and a tank top. No bra. I noticed. I’d been noticing for a while, honestly. The way her body moved under her clothes, the way she’d stretch after gardening, the casual intimacy of two neighbors who’d crossed some invisible line without ever talking about it.
We sat on my couch, a bowl of mini chocolate bars between us, and talked about nothing. Then about everything. Her divorce. My stagnating marriage. The way life felt like a hallway with all the doors already locked.
“I used to be fun,” she said, unwrapping a tiny Snickers. “Now I’m just… functional.”
“You’re not functional,” I said. “You’re fucking gorgeous and you don’t even know it.”
The air in the room changed. Thickened. She looked at me, and her lips parted slightly.
“Edit,” she said, and my name in her mouth sounded like the beginning of something.
I leaned in and kissed her. Soft at first, a question. She answered by pulling me closer, her fingers curling into the back of my shirt. Her mouth tasted like chocolate and coffee and something sharper underneath, something hungry.
“I’ve thought about this,” she whispered against my lips.
“Me too,” I said. “So many times.”
We moved without breaking the kiss, a clumsy shuffle toward the bedroom. Clothes started coming off in the hallway. Her tank top first, and I stopped to just look at her breasts, full and soft, nipples already tight. I took one in my mouth and she gasped, her hand going to the back of my head.
“Fuck, Edit,” she breathed.
I walked her backward to the bed, my mouth still on her, and we fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Her sweatpants came next, and my hand found her pussy, already wet through the thin cotton of her underwear. I rubbed her through the fabric, slow circles, and she arched up into my palm.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t tease.”
I pulled her underwear off and settled between her legs. She was beautiful here too, pink and glistening, and when I lowered my mouth to her clit, she made a sound that was half moan, half sob. I licked her slowly, learning the shape of her, the rhythm she liked. Her hips started to move against my face, and I slid two fingers inside her, curling them the way I’d want for myself.
“Right there,” she gasped. “Oh god, right fucking there.”
I fucked her with my fingers and sucked her clit until her thighs started to shake. She came with a sharp cry, her whole body tensing and then releasing, and I kept my mouth on her until she pushed my head away, oversensitive and laughing.
“Your turn,” she said, pulling me up to kiss her. “I want to taste you.”
She flipped me onto my back and worked her way down my body, her mouth hot on my neck, my breasts, my stomach. When she reached my cunt, she didn’t hesitate. Her tongue slid inside me first, then up to my clit, and she ate me out with a focused intensity that made me grab the sheets.
“You taste so good,” she murmured against me, and the vibration of her voice sent a jolt through my whole body.
I was close already, wound tight from going down on her, and when she pushed two fingers inside me and sucked hard on my clit, I shattered. My orgasm rolled through me in waves, and I cried out, not caring if the neighbors heard. Let them.
We lay there afterward, tangled and sweaty, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds.
“So,” Sara said, tracing a finger along my collarbone. “About that spice rack.”
I laughed. “What about it?”
“Cumin,” she said. “It’s right where it belongs.”
I looked at her, confused.
“Between coriander and curry powder,” she said. “I checked while you were making coffee. You alphabetized it wrong.”
I stared at her for a second, and then I burst out laughing so hard I snorted.