Emergency Call
"2 AM. His phone rings. It's his landlady—something's wrong in her apartment. He rushes down to help. What he finds isn't an emergency. It's an invitation."
The phone wakes me at 2 AM.
Mrs. Hoffman - Landlord, the screen says. My heart hammers—I'm paid up, I haven't broken anything, what could possibly—
"Hello?"
"Marcus?" Her voice is breathless, strange. "I'm sorry to call so late. There's—there's water coming from somewhere. I think a pipe burst. Can you help?"
"I'll be right down."
I throw on sweats and a t-shirt, grab my phone for the flashlight, and race down the stairs to her first-floor apartment. The door's unlocked. I push it open.
"Mrs. Hoffman?"
"In here. The bathroom."
I walk through her living room—nice, tasteful, full of books and soft lighting—to the bathroom door. It's cracked open. Light spills out.
I push it open.
There's no burst pipe.
There's Mrs. Hoffman, sitting on the edge of her bathtub, wearing a silk robe and nothing else. The robe is untied, falling open, revealing curves I've tried not to imagine since I moved in.
"What—"
"There's no emergency." She stands. The robe slides further open. "I lied."
"Why would you—"
"Because I've been watching you for eight months." She walks toward me. "Because I hear you come home late, and I wonder where you've been. Because I see you in the laundry room, and I think about what you'd look like without those clothes."
"Mrs. Hoffman—"
"Dorothy." She stops in front of me. Close. Too close. "I'm fifty-nine years old, Marcus. My husband left me for someone younger. I haven't been touched in three years. And tonight, I couldn't take it anymore."
"So you called me about a fake emergency?"
"I called you because I wanted you here. In my apartment. At 2 AM." She lets the robe fall. "And now you are."
She's beautiful.
Not young, not thin, not any of the things the world says she should be. She's probably two-fifty, with heavy breasts and a soft belly and hips that flare wide. Her skin is pale, dotted with freckles. Her hair is silver-streaked.
She's the most desirable woman I've ever seen.
"I should leave," I say. I don't move.
"You should." She takes my hand. Places it on her breast. Soft, warm, her nipple hardening under my palm. "Are you going to?"
"No."
"Good." She pulls me toward the bedroom. "I've been waiting too long for you to leave now."
Her bedroom is dark except for candles.
She's been planning this. Candles on the dresser, on the nightstands, casting everything in warm, flickering light. The bed is made with silk sheets. There's wine on the nightstand.
"How long have you been thinking about this?"
"Weeks. Maybe months." She turns to face me. "I kept hoping you'd make a move. Bump into me in the hallway. Find an excuse to knock on my door. But you never did."
"You're my landlady."
"I'm a woman." She reaches for my shirt. Pulls it over my head. "A lonely woman who's tired of being alone."
She kisses my chest. My stomach. Drops to her knees.
"Dorothy—"
"Let me." She pulls down my sweats. My cock springs free, already hard. Her eyes widen. "Oh. Oh my."
She takes me in her mouth.
She's good at this.
Three years without practice, and she still makes my knees weak. Her mouth is hot and wet and eager, and she looks up at me while she works—watching my face, learning what I like.
"Stop—I'll—"
She pulls off with a wet pop. "Not yet. I want that inside me first."
She lies back on the bed. Spreads her thick thighs. Beckons.
"Come here, Marcus. Show me I'm not too old to be wanted."
I climb over her. Position myself. Look into her eyes.
"You're not too old. You're not too anything." I push in. "You're perfect."
She cries when I fuck her.
Not from pain—from relief. From feeling something after three years of nothing. I move slowly at first, letting her feel every inch, and tears stream down her face.
"I forgot—" She clutches my shoulders. "I forgot what this felt like—"
"You're beautiful."
"I'm old—"
"You're beautiful." I thrust deeper. "Say it."
"I'm—"
"Say it."
"I'm beautiful." She moans. "I'm wanted. I'm—oh God—"
She comes. Shaking, crying, screaming in a way she hasn't in years. I fuck her through it, then fuck her to another, then finally let myself go—filling her while she clings to me like I'm the only real thing in the world.
Afterward, we lie in the candlelight.
"I'm sorry I lied," she says.
"About the pipe?"
"About everything. The fake emergency. The seduction." She traces patterns on my chest. "I didn't know how else to get you here."
"You could have asked."
"I was scared." She looks up at me. "Scared you'd say no. Scared you'd move out. Scared I'd spend another year listening to your footsteps and wishing—"
I kiss her.
"I'm not moving out," I say. "And you don't have to be scared anymore."
"Really?"
"Really." I pull her on top of me. "But next time you need me, just call. You don't have to invent a burst pipe."
She laughs. Sinks down onto me.
"What if I call every night?"
"Then I guess I'll be here every night."
She does call. Almost every night.
Sometimes with fake emergencies—a spider, a strange noise, a lightbulb that needs changing. Sometimes just to hear my voice.
I stop answering my phone in my apartment.
I answer it in hers.
Three months later, I move downstairs permanently.
Best emergency call I ever received.