Cleaning up after yourself

Your forehead rests against the couch cushion. The fabric smells like dust and fabric softener and, underneath it, the ghost of Matt's cologne. Marcus's hands are still on your hips—Cathy's hips—his fingers loose now, no longer gripping, just resting there like he's forgotten how to let go.

Neither of you speaks. The only sound is breathing. His is ragged, catching on something in his chest every few exhales. Yours comes slower, deeper, and you can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, a dull, pleasant throb that syncs with the ache in your thighs.

Minutes pass. Or maybe seconds stretched thin by the heaviness of what just happened.

His cum is drying on your lower back, tacky and cooling. One rope caught the swell of your ass and dripped down the crease, and you can feel it there, a slow slide toward your still-open pussy. The air from the open window ghosts across your skin and raises goosebumps along your arms.

"You okay?" His voice is wrecked. Barely above a whisper.

You turn your head, cheek still pressed to the cushion, and look at him over your shoulder. He's a mess—sweat beading at his temples, glasses fogged, chest heaving under that bony ribcage. His cock is softening against his thigh, glistening, smeared with both of you.

"Better than okay," you say. Cathy's voice, but rougher now, used.

He exhales like he's been holding that breath for years.

You push yourself up on shaking arms, and the movement makes him pull back, his hands falling away. You turn, sit on the edge of the couch, and face him. He's still standing, naked, awkward, his jeans pooled around his ankles, and the sight of him—tall, thin, utterly undone—makes something twist behind your ribs. Not love. Not even tenderness, exactly. Something closer to pride.

"You were better than Matt," you say.

His eyes go wide. "What?"

"Matt." You reach for the tissues again, pull one free, and start wiping your stomach, slow, unhurried. "my boyfriend. The guy whose flat you're standing in." You smile, and it's Cathy's smile, warm and disarming. "You were better than him. By a lot."

Marcus blinks. His mouth opens, closes. "I—I don't know what to—"

"You don't have to say anything." You stand, and your legs are steadier now. You cross to him, close, close enough to feel the heat still rolling off his skin, and you lay a palm flat on his chest. His heart hammers under your hand. "But you do have to go."

The words land like a slap. His face falls, just for a second, before he catches it.

"Right," he says. "Yeah. I should—"

"Listen." You hold his gaze. "Nobody can know about this. Not a single person. Not your friends, not your mom, not your roommate if you have one. And especially not Matt."

He nods, quick, eager. "I wouldn't—I'd never—"

"I know." You press your hand a little harder against his chest. "And here's the other thing. You don't talk to me about this. Not ever. If you see me in the hallway, you nod and you keep walking. If you see me at the mailbox, same thing. You don't bring this up. You don't text me. You don't leave a note under my door." You pause, let it sink in. "Because if you do, this never happens again."

His brow furrows. You watch the words travel through him, watch confusion turn to dawning understanding. His lips part.

"Wait," he says. "So you're saying—"

"I'm saying it might happen again." You tilt your head, and the robe is long gone, and you're naked and unbothered, one hip cocked. "If you can keep your mouth shut. If you can pretend I'm just the girl from upstairs. If you can be patient."

He swallows hard. The color rises in his face, a deep, warm flush that spreads from his neck to his ears.

"That's—" He stops. Starts again. "You're serious?"

"I'm always serious." You step back, put space between you, and the loss of contact seems to snap him out of it. He looks down at himself, at his naked body, at the jeans bunched around his ankles, and horror crosses his face.

"I should—" He bends, grabs his boxer briefs, and nearly topples over trying to step into them.

You watch. You don't help. He yanks the briefs up over his hips, and his softened cock, still slick with your pussy and his own cum, gets caught in the waistband. He winces, adjusts himself with a grimace, and the fabric darkens instantly where it touches him. The briefs are ruined already.

"Those are going to need a wash," you observe.

"Yeah." He grabs his jeans, hops on one foot, then the other. The denim is tight going over his hips, and you can see the outline of what he's packing even now, even soft. He zips up, buttons, and the bulge sits heavy against his thigh.

His hoodie comes next. He pulls it over his head, and the motion stretches his torso, showing the ladder of his ribs, the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. Then it settles over him, and he's just a tall, shy boy in baggy clothes again, except for the slight tremor in his hands.

"The eggs," he says suddenly. "I forgot the eggs."

You spot them on the floor near the door, carton intact, somehow. You retrieve them and hand them over. He takes the carton like it's a live grenade.

"Marcus." You wait until he looks at you. "You did good. You didn't do anything wrong."

He nods, mute, and his eyes are wet at the corners, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

"Go," you say. "Before someone comes home."

He goes.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you stand in the middle of the living room, naked, alone, and listen to his footsteps fade down the stairwell. Two floors down, a door opens, closes. Then silence.

You exhale. The flat is yours again.

The mess is considerable. Tissues scattered across the coffee table, the floor, one crumpled on the arm of the couch. Your bathrobe in a gray puddle near the kitchen. Two mugs of cold tea. A damp spot on the couch cushion, unmistakable. And the smell—sex, sweat, the musk of Marcus's skin.

You start with the tissues. Gather them into a ball, carry them to the kitchen, and bury them at the bottom of the trash. Then the mugs, dumped in the sink, rinsed, set in the rack. You find a spray bottle of surface cleaner under the sink and wipe down the coffee table, the side tables, the arms of the couch. The cushion you leave for last. You press a clean towel into it, soak up what you can, and then flip it over. When you set it back, nobody would ever know.

The bathrobe goes back on its hook behind the bedroom door.

You stand in the bathroom, under the shower, and let the water run as hot as you can stand it. Steam fills the room. You scrub yourself—Cathy's body—with a washcloth and soap, between the legs, under the arms, everywhere his hands touched. The water runs gray with soap and sweat and the last traces of him.

When you step out, you dry off with one of their towels. Matt's towel. It smells like him. You use it anyway.

Dressing is clinical. The plain black bra, the cotton briefs, the baggy jeans from the photo, the wide black t-shirt. You pull your hair back into its ponytail, and the elastic snaps into place with a practiced flick. In the mirror, Cathy looks at you. Flushed, clean, composed. Not a hair out of place.

You pocket the spare key, lock the door from inside, and leave through the front, dropping the key back into the ceramic frog on the way out.

The walk home is a blur. You take the back route again, past the church, through the residential streets. The sky is deepening to purple, streetlights flickering on, and a few people pass you—a jogger, a couple with a stroller, a teenager on a bike. None of them look at you twice. You're just a girl in baggy clothes, walking home, lost in thought.

The lock on your own door clicks, and you step inside.

The first breath you take is the deepest you've taken all evening.

You lean against the door, and the flat settles around you—your flat, your things, your life. The printer hums quietly on the desk, dormant. The lamp you left on casts soft yellow light across the room. The hollow Cathy skin still lies where you left it, a discarded thought on the floor.

You should feel bad.

You know that. You know it intellectually. You cheated on a boyfriend who doesn't know you exist, with a virgin who thinks he just had the best night of his life, in a flat you broke into, wearing a face you stole. You lied, you manipulated, you used a boy's loneliness against him.

You should feel bad.

Instead, there's a warmth in your chest. A quiet, humming satisfaction. You took what you wanted. You were wanted. For the first time in twenty-two years, someone looked at you—looked at the body you were wearing—with hunger, with devotion, with awe.

You peel off Cathy's clothes and step out of the skinsuit, and the transformation reverses itself slowly. Your shoulders broaden, your hips narrow, your cock fills out the boxer briefs. You stand in your own body, in your own flat, and you feel lighter than you have in years.

The suit lies at your feet, empty and waiting.

You kick it aside and sit on the edge of your bed.

Marcus is gone. Cathy is still at practice, or propably already at a bar. Matt is still out with his friends. The night is yours.

You think about Lily, waiting on the front steps, her little crush, her tight body. You think about the girl from the coffee shop. The redhead from 5A with the sharp green eyes. Wren with her dreadlocks and her pride.

You think about all the bodies you could wear, all the lives you could slip into, all the people who would never, ever know.

The printer hums on your desk. The app glows on your phone.

The night is young.