Running Errands

Anonymous V.’s

Running Errands

She Brought Home a Surprise

“She Told Me She Was Just Running Errands”

He had her against the concrete pillar two levels down. The garage smelled like cold oil, wet concrete, and her. Her uncharacteristic heels scraped pale on the grit and the sound of it went ticking off the low ceiling. He didn’t pull the black sheer pantyhose down. The nylon screamed when he tore it—one hard rip at the crotch, a wet ragged hole—and then he was in her through it, standing, slapping against what was left of the hose. A car somewhere above them rolled over a joint in the ramp; the tires squeaked. Their breath bounced between the pillars, her moan cut off when he clapped a hand over her mouth. Another door slammed two levels up and the echo made her clench. She soaked the torn nylon before he even finished. Come ran warm down the inside of one black thigh and dripped onto the oil-stained floor.

Four hours earlier

I was asleep on the sofa.

The cushion had gone soft and warm under me. The ceiling fan clicked on every slow turn. Somewhere a vent breathed that dry house air that smells like fabric softener and last night’s dishes.

She bent down.

Her hair brushed my cheek first—clean shampoo, the warmer smell of her skin underneath. Then her mouth. I barely woke. The kiss was slow and sure. Lipstick, slightly tacky, cherry-dark when I opened my eyes a slit. Mint on her tongue. The cool slick of it mixing with the heat of her breath. Makeup close-up: a little powder, the faint sweet of foundation, winged liner I only caught as a dark edge when she pulled back.

“Running some errands,” she whispered. “Won’t be long.”

I saw the rest of her the way you see a dream you’re too tired to keep. The skirt, short enough that when she leaned it rode the tops of her thighs. Black sheer pantyhose, new-looking, that dull expensive shine over her calves, reinforced toes pointed in the thin spikes she almost never wears on a Tuesday. ...