Lila's Latex Command Begins

I never thought inviting them over would crack open the locked drawer in my chest, but there I was at forty-two, freshly divorced and half-drunk on cheap wine, watching my twenty-four-year-old neighbor Marcus fold his athletic frame onto my sofa while his girlfriend Lila claimed the armchair like a throne. She wore a tight black leather skirt that creaked when she crossed her legs, sheer black stockings catching the lamp light, and glossy patent heels so shiny I could almost see my hungry reflection in them. Marcus kept glancing at her ankles the way I used to glance at forbidden catalogues. I licked my lips and poured another round, pretending my pulse wasn’t hammering.

“Your place feels lonely,” Lila said, voice low and amused. She flexed one foot, the patent toe pointing at me. “Or maybe just waiting.”

Marcus laughed, easy and warm. “Lila doesn’t do small talk. She scents weakness.” His eyes dropped to my bare feet curled under me on the cushion. I’d painted the nails deep red that afternoon for no reason I admitted. “Nice pedicure, Elena. Looks soft.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I should have changed the subject. Instead I said, “I like how leather smells when it’s warm. How stockings whisper.” The confession slipped out too easily. Lila’s smile sharpened. She uncrossed her legs slowly, deliberately, and the soft hiss of nylon made both Marcus and me go still.

“Oh,” she murmured. “So we’re all degenerates. Good.” She pointed the glossy heel at me. “Come closer. Tell me what you really keep in those drawers upstairs.”