The Barbershop Chair

Everybody knows Big Mike's.

Corner of 125th and Malcolm X, been there since 1987. Three generations of Harlem men have gotten their fades here, their lineups, their haircuts for first dates and funerals and everything in between.

I'm Big Mike.

And I'm about to make the worst decision of my life.

The bell jingles at 4 PM on a Saturday.

"Little Terrence is ready," I call out without looking up. Terrence Jr. just got his fresh cut, looking clean for his mama.

"Thank you, Mike."

That voice.

I look up, and there's Anita.

Anita Walker.

My best friend Derrick's wife—ex-wife now, as of three months ago. We grew up together, the three of us. Derrick and I on the block, Anita from around the way. When they got married twenty years ago, I was the best man.

When they divorced, I stayed out of it.

But Lord, I forgot how beautiful she was.

She's wearing a sundress that hugs every curve—and there are plenty of curves to hug. Anita was always thick, but motherhood and age have made her more. Full breasts straining against fabric, hips that sway when she walks, a belly that rounds soft beneath her dress.

"Hey Big Mike." She smiles, and I feel it in my chest. "It's been a minute."

"Yeah." I find my voice. "Yeah, it has."

"Mama, can I stay for the next cut?"

Terrence Jr. is twelve, obsessed with the barbershop. He's been begging to learn the trade since he could hold scissors.

Anita hesitates. "Baby, I'm sure Mike is busy—"

"He can stay," I hear myself say. "I'll teach him some basics. You can pick him up at seven?"

Her eyes meet mine. Something passes between us—something that shouldn't be there.

"Seven," she agrees. "Thank you."

She's back at 6:45.

I've just finished my last client, and Little Terrence is in the back watching tutorials on my tablet. Anita slips through the door, alone.

"Early," I say.

"Couldn't wait at home." She sits in my chair—the one I cut from. "Empty house makes me crazy."

"How are you handling it? The divorce?"

"Some days are better than others." She runs her hands over the worn leather armrests. "How much has Derrick told you?"

"Nothing. He doesn't talk about it."

"Typical." She laughs bitterly. "Twenty years and he still can't communicate."

"What happened?"

I shouldn't ask. It's not my business. But she's in my chair, looking vulnerable, and I've known her since we were fifteen.

"He stopped seeing me," she says quietly. "Not physically—he was always there. But seeing me? Wanting me? That stopped years ago."

"Anita..."

"I gained weight after Terrence. Never lost it. And Derrick... he started making comments. Looking at other women. Making me feel like I was less than."

"That's bullshit."

"Is it?" She looks at me. "When's the last time someone wanted you so bad they couldn't hide it, Mike? Because I can't remember what that feels like."

I should lie.

Should say something neutral, something safe. Should remember that this is Derrick's ex-wife, my best friend's woman, forbidden territory.

"Every time I look at you," I say instead.

Her breath catches. "What?"

"You asked when someone wanted you. Every time I look at you, Anita. Since we were fifteen years old."

"Mike..."

"I never said anything. You were Derrick's. You were happy—I thought you were happy. And I loved you both too much to ruin it."

"I wasn't happy." Her voice breaks. "I haven't been happy in years."

She stands from the chair.

Walks to the door.

Flips the lock.

"Terrence is in the back," I say stupidly.

"He's got headphones on and three hours of videos to watch." She moves toward me. "I checked before I came in."

"Anita, this is—"

"I know what it is." She stops in front of me. "It's been building for twenty years. I see how you look at me when you think no one's watching. At barbecues, at birthdays, at every family event where I had to pretend I didn't notice."

"You noticed?"

"I married the wrong one, Mike." Her hand touches my chest. "I've known it for years."

I kiss her.

Twenty years of wanting, twenty years of restraint—it all explodes the moment our lips meet. She tastes like cherry lip gloss and regret, and I can't get enough.

"The chair," she gasps. "I want the chair."

I lift her into my barber chair, the same one that's held hundreds of clients. She wraps her legs around me, pulling me between her thighs.

"This is wrong," I murmur against her neck.

"This is the first right thing I've felt in years."

I push her dress up.

Her thighs are thick, warm, trembling. I kiss my way up them, pushing fabric aside until I reach white cotton panties.

"Mike—"

"I've wanted to taste you since junior prom." I pull the panties aside. "Please let me taste you."

"Yes."

She's sweet and musky and everything I imagined.

I bury my face between her legs, licking and sucking and worshipping while she grips the armrests and moans. The chair squeaks with her movements—it's never been used like this.

"Oh God—oh God—"

"That's it." I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit. "Come for me, Anita. Show me what he didn't deserve."

She comes with a cry she muffles with her hand, shaking so hard the chair spins.

"I need you inside me."

I stand, fumbling with my belt. She watches with hungry eyes, licking her lips when I free myself.

"Always knew you were big everywhere," she says.

"Been waiting to show you."

I slide inside her, and the world narrows to this—her body gripping mine, her breath against my neck, the creak of the chair beneath us.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Why did I wait so long?"

"Doesn't matter." I start to move. "We're here now."

I fuck her slow at first.

Deep strokes that make her gasp, that let her feel every inch. Her nails rake my back through my shirt. Her legs lock tighter around me.

"Harder, Mike. Please—"

"I've got you." I grip her hips and give her harder. "I've always got you."

The chair rocks dangerously. I brace one hand on the mirror behind her, use the leverage to drive deeper.

"Yes—right there—don't stop—"

"Never stopping. Not again."

She comes twice before I let go.

I pull out at the last second, spilling on her thighs, both of us gasping.

"Damn," she breathes.

"Yeah." I lean my forehead against hers. "Damn."

We clean up quickly.

Little Terrence is still in the back, headphones on, oblivious. Anita smooths her dress, fixes her hair.

"I should go," she says.

"Anita—"

"I don't regret it." She touches my face. "Not one second."

"What happens now?"

"Now?" She smiles—really smiles, brighter than I've seen in years. "Now I pick up my son, take him home, and pretend I'm not counting the hours until I can come back."

"When?"

"Whenever you'll have me."

"MAMA! Big Mike said I can come back Wednesday!"

Terrence Jr. bounds out of the back, grinning. Anita laughs, hugs him.

"Wednesday sounds perfect, baby." She catches my eye over his head. "Doesn't it, Mike?"

"Perfect," I agree.

Derrick calls me that night.

"You see Anita today?" he asks.

My stomach drops. "Yeah. She picked up Little T."

"How'd she look? She doing okay?"

I think about his ex-wife in my chair. On my tongue. Around my cock.

"She looked happy," I say honestly.

"Good. Good. She deserves happy."

"Yeah," I agree. "She does."

Wednesday comes.

And Thursday. And the Saturday after.

Anita and I don't put a label on it—not yet. It's too new, too complicated, too wrapped up in twenty years of history.

But when she sits in my chair now, it's not for waiting.

It's for belonging.

And Big Mike's has never felt more like home.