Hot Fridays

I know she doesn’t want me on a Monday, or a Wednesday, or a Sunday. She doesn’t think about me on her lunchtimes, I don’t flash in her mind during book club or when she binges Good Girls on Netflix. 

There’s many things she would prefer on a rainy day – a cup of tea, a video game, a soft toy under a blanket. 

She meets friends on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I’m not her friend.

She will not see me when the sun is up, or when the street is quiet at night.  

So when my phone buzzes, I know it’s Friday. It’s hot and stuffy. Her clothes will be sticking to her body; she will be peeling them off herself, thinking of one thing only. 

Me.

My hands around her neck, my mouth on hers. There will be no book quotes in her mind, no thoughts of tea and friends. She will pant in the rhythm of my moves, the fan whirring, masking the sounds of us. I will pull her hair and she will scream under me until we both come undone. 

The air outside will cool, the crowds will settle. I will slip out a minute before Friday turns into Saturday. I’m not her friend. 

She will forget me. 

Until the next hot Friday.

Prompt used: Sweat

Copyright: Lainey Delaroque 2022