Charity Shop Charmer

The British Heart Foundation shop was a goldmine—vintage jackets, old records, occasionally something actually valuable. But the real treasure was Janet.

She was fifty-something, thick, with reading glasses and the kind of smile that made you want to donate your whole wardrobe. Volunteer, probably retired, clearly bored.

"Find anything good?"

"Still looking."

"Anything in particular?"

"Something unique."

She looked me over, something shifting in her expression. "Well. There's some items in the back that haven't been sorted yet. Vintage. Might be worth a look."

The back room was full of unsorted donations—bags of clothes, boxes of books, the detritus of dead relatives. She locked the door.

"I know this is forward," she said. "But I've been doing this job for three years and you're the first person under sixty who's shown any interest in anything."

"Including you?"

"Especially me." She kissed me—confident, practiced. "My husband passed five years ago. Been alone ever since. Today I decided to do something about it."

"I'm glad you did."

She was thick, soft, with curves that her sensible clothes had been hiding. Her blouse came off, revealing a bra that was functional but what was inside wasn't.

"Like them?"

"They're beautiful."

I pushed her against a pile of coats, dropped to my knees. Her skirt came up, tights pulled down.

"Oh God—no one's done that in—"

I buried my tongue in her. She came fast, shaking, decades of loneliness releasing.

"Inside me—please—need to feel something—"

I slid into her among the donated clothes, her legs wrapping around me.

"Harder—yes—been so long—"

She came twice more, tears in her eyes—the good kind.

"Close—inside—please—"

I came deep, holding her against me.

We lay there on a pile of vintage coats, catching breath.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"I'll bring a donation."

"Just bring yourself."

Started volunteering there after that. Best charity work I ever did.