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?
