After He Left
"His best friend moved across the country. Her house is quiet now—too quiet. When he stops by to check on her, he finds a woman starving for company. For connection. For touch."
The text is three words: I miss him.
I stare at it for a long moment. Connor's been in Seattle for two months now. Tech job, good money, finally living his dream. I'm happy for him.
His mom is falling apart.
I'll come by, I type back. Dinner?
Please.
Mrs. Rodriguez opens the door looking like she hasn't slept in days.
Her dark hair is messy, pulled into a careless bun. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She's wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, and even that can't hide her body—the curves that have made my mouth dry since I was fifteen.
"Michael." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for coming."
"Always."
She hugs me, and I feel her shake. Just slightly. Like she's holding herself together by threads.
"Come in," she says. "I made enchiladas."
We eat in the kitchen that used to be full of noise.
Connor and me playing video games in the basement. His dad—God rest him—shouting at football on the TV. Mrs. Rodriguez laughing at all of it.
Now it's just her. In a house too big for one person.
"He calls every week," she says, pushing food around her plate. "Says he's happy. He sounds happy."
"He is. I talked to him Tuesday."
"Good. That's good." She sets down her fork. "I just... I don't know what to do with myself anymore. David's been gone five years. Now Connor. And I'm just..."
"Alone."
"Alone." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Fifty-four years old and I don't know who I am when I'm not taking care of someone."
I reach across the table. Take her hand.
"You're Elena Rodriguez," I say. "You're warm and funny and kind. You're the woman who taught me that moms could be cool. You're—"
"Fat and old and invisible."
"Beautiful." I squeeze her hand. "You're beautiful, and anyone who doesn't see that is blind."
She stares at me. Her eyes well up.
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not just saying it." I stand. Walk around the table. Kneel beside her chair. "I've thought you were beautiful since I was fifteen. I've watched men look past you like you don't exist, and I've wanted to shake them. To show them what they're missing."
"Michael—"
"I'm not Connor's kid friend anymore." I cup her face. Wipe a tear with my thumb. "I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm telling you the truth. You're not invisible. Not to me."
She breaks.
She falls into me, sobbing, and I hold her. Just hold her. Let her shake and cry and release five years of grief and two months of loneliness.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are different. Clearer. Hungrier.
"Stay," she whispers.
"For how long?"
"Tonight." She touches my chest. "Just tonight. Please."
Her bedroom still has photos of David on the dresser.
She sees me looking.
"I can put them away."
"No." I pull her close. "He was your husband. He mattered. I'm not trying to replace him."
"What are you trying to do?"
I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.
"I'm trying to remind you that you're alive."
I kiss her properly.
She melts into me. Her hands find my back, pull me closer. She tastes like wine and tears and something sweeter—hope, maybe, or relief.
"I haven't been touched since David died," she whispers against my lips. "Five years, Michael."
"Let me fix that."
I undress her slowly.
The t-shirt comes off first. She tries to cover herself—instinct, embarrassment—but I move her hands away.
"Let me see you."
She lets me see.
Her bra is practical, white. I unhook it, and her breasts spill free—heavy and full, dark nipples hardening in the cool air. Her stomach is soft, rounded, marked with the stretch marks of motherhood. Her sweatpants come down to reveal thick thighs and wide hips and a body that's lived and loved and carried life into the world.
"You're perfect," I tell her.
"I'm not—"
"You are." I kneel before her. Kiss her belly. Her hip. The inside of her thigh. "Every part of you."
I bury my face between her thighs.
She comes in under a minute.
Five years without touch, five years of loneliness, and my tongue undoes her in seconds. She grabs my head and shakes and cries my name, and I don't stop—I lick her through it, push two fingers inside her, make her come again.
"Please—" She pulls at my shoulders. "Please—I need—"
I stand. Strip. Her eyes go wide when she sees my cock.
"David was never—"
"I know." I guide her to the bed. "But I'm not David."
I lay her down. Spread her thighs. Position myself at her entrance.
"Tell me you want this," I say.
"I want this." Her eyes are shining. "I want you."
I push in.
She cries the whole time.
Not from pain—from release. From feeling something after five years of nothing. I move inside her slowly, gently, and she clings to me like I'm the only solid thing in the world.
"You feel so good—" She wraps her legs around me. "God, I'd forgotten—"
"I've got you." I kiss her tears. "I'm here."
I make love to her. That's the only word for it. Slow and deep and full of everything I've wanted to give her since I was old enough to understand want.
When she comes again, it's with my name on her lips. And when I finally let go, buried deep inside her, she holds me like she never wants me to leave.
Afterward, we lie tangled together.
"Connor would kill us," she murmurs.
"Probably."
"We can never tell him."
"I know."
She props herself up. Looks at me with eyes that are clear for the first time since I walked in.
"Will you come back?"
"Whenever you want me."
"What if I want you all the time?"
I smile. Pull her down for a kiss.
"Then I guess I'll be here all the time."
She laughs—real, bright, alive.
I visit twice a week after that. More when I can manage. Connor calls us both, talks about his life in Seattle, never suspects a thing.
His mom sounds happy these days.
He thinks it's because she's finally adjusting to the empty nest.
He's half right.