Erica reached into her purse for her keys. Nothing.
Fuck, I must have left them at school,
she thought.
She'd have to text her landlady...
again...
the second time this month. She sighed and pulled out her phone.
Greg lived five minutes away. She'd meant to make him an extra key months ago, when she first got the apartment. But, well,
procrastination.
It was the name of her game.
No more.
While her phone was out, she texted him alsol:
Drinks this week?
When she walked into MG's Bar on Thursday, Greg had a table. She sat down and slid the key across to him without explanation.
Did you lock yourself out again?
Shut up,
she said.
I am now the "The Keymaster",
he said, holding it up jokingly. He was keeping it light, but inside he was relieved. He'd mentioned this to her in passing some time ago and thought she had forgotten. When he first suggested it, he admitted to her that--
what with the wife and the kid and all
--there was at least once or twice a month that he needed to have an hour or two to himself. She now had her backup, and he had a place to hide.
Three weeks later, Erica was running late to the train station when she got a text from Greg.
You around this weekend,
he asked.
Nah, headed to Philly.
Cool. Mind if I hide at your place for a couple hours tomorrow?
Sure... Oh, can you water the plants?
Their thirst shall be quenched.
When she returned on Monday, her place was pristine and her plant beds suitably moist. Walking past her guest room, she picked up a faint aroma.
Pleasant. Sweet almost.
She went inside and looked around.
Huh.
She'd always had a keen sense of smell. She stood in the middle of the room and inhaled.
Coconut oil,
she thought
.
She walked into the kitchen and looked in her cabinet. It wasn't there. Then back to the room. She poked around until she found the opened jar, on the floor, seemingly forgotten, partially hidden by the leg of the dresser next to the bed.
How the fuck did that get there?
Ten seconds later, it dawned on her.
That little...
She and Greg used to talk about all manner of things. In the years before he was married, plied with a drink or two, they'd shared a few sexual...
revelations
. One of those--one she somehow never forgot--was that coconut oil was his preferred lubricant. It didn't take Agatha Christie to know that Greg must have done more than water the plants.
He thought he was being sly,
she thought
. But he forgot to put this back.
She didn't mind. At first, she mostly thought it was funny--at least the part of him thinking he was slick. She almost texted him something snarky, but didn't. They hadn't talked about sexual stuff in a long time and from her own experience she knew everyone needed their secrets. Sitting on the guest bed--where he'd almost certainly been jerking off this weekend--she even felt a wave of arousal. Now
she
was the one with the secret.
In the month that followed, Greg would reach out about once a week and ask if he could use her apartment as a getaway when she was at work. She found his various explanations cute, especially in light of what she knew. It wasn't the worst way to alleviate some of the boredom of teaching by imagining him in her apartment, a few strokes away from euphoria. She noticed that the next time, he'd remembered to return the coconut oil. But little by little, despite never cooking, she saw her jar dwindle.
Greg texted her late one Thursday afternoon.
You headed home after work? Want to grab a drink?
She looked at the text.
I can't resist,
she thought.
It'll be harmless.
Nah, gotta stop in at my Mom's,
she text back.
Probably won't be back until late.
Greg didn't ask to use her place but something told her that's what was on his mind. He would think the coast was clear. His masturbatory taste buds would be watering.
Erica had lied. She didn't need to go to her mom's. She drove straight home. She didn't want to walk in on him, but she wanted to give him--and herself--the thrill of...
almost
. As she approached her front door, she acted like she was on the phone with her friend Natasha, talking somewhat loudly, announcing her presence. She took her time, checked her mailbox as she talked, jingled her keys loudly as if searching for the right one, and then finally opened the front door. Her heart was pounding, not knowing if Greg was there or not.
Nobody was in the living room, but she could feel someone
had
been there. One of the chairs was slightly askew, as if from sudden retreat.
There it is. That coconut oil smell.
But the apartment was totally silent. She continued her fake conversation with her friend as she took it all in and walked down the hallway.
Yeah, I'm headed there now. I just forgot she wanted me to bring that bottle of wine I promised her,
she improvised.
She saw that her guest room door was shut. It had been open when she left that morning. She was sure of it.
That's where he is. He's probably still in some state of nakedness, afraid to move because he might make a noise.
The thrill of it caught her off guard.
She got a bottle of wine, lingered a few minutes longer, then left. But she didn't really leave. She stayed in her car, parked down the street a bit, to see if Greg would emerge. Fifteen minutes later, he did.
I fucking knew it!
His brush with discovery might have cowed Greg a bit, because she didn't hear from him the next week. But she knew another text was coming. The waiting was fun--anticipatory secretive pleasure of a kind she'd forgotten about.
Who would have thought something could be so erotic that wasn't going to be... consummated?
