Private Domestic Use

Part Three of The Woman Who Rented the Moon.

“Tell me exactly what you came upstairs to do,” Vesper whispered.

Her mouth was at my ear.

Her robe was loose in my hand.

The moon hung low enough to hear us breathing.

“I came upstairs to touch you,” I said.

“Where?”

That one almost killed me.

Not the word.

The calm.

Vesper asked it like she was asking the time. Like she was not standing there under a rented moon with her robe sliding down her arms and the whole room holding its filthy little breath.

I looked at her mouth.

Her throat.

The place where her hand kept the robe closed.

“Everywhere you let me.”

She smiled.

“Better.”