The Spare Key | NEON LIT

The key is under the mat.

Mrs. Davidson—Patricia, she insists—gave it to me before she left. "I'll be in Chicago for a week," she said. "Just check on the place? Water the plants, grab the mail, make sure nothing's flooding?"

Simple enough. She's been my neighbor for three years. She brought me casserole when I moved in. I can water her plants for a week.

I let myself in on Wednesday. Fourth day of her trip.

And I hear water running.

Someone's in the house.

I freeze in the entryway, heart pounding. A burglar? A squatter? My hand finds my phone, ready to dial 911.

Then I hear humming. Soft. Female. Coming from the bathroom upstairs.

I know that voice.

I should leave. I should text her, ask if someone else has a key. I should do anything except what I'm about to do.

I climb the stairs.

The bathroom door is open.

Steam billows out, fogging the hallway. And through it, I see her—Patricia Davidson, fifty-two years old, lying in a clawfoot tub full of bubbles.

Her eyes meet mine.

"You're early," she says.

I can't process this. "You're supposed to be in Chicago."

"I was. I came back yesterday." She shifts in the tub, and I see the curve of her breast through the foam. "I was wondering how long it would take you to come by."

"I come by every day. To check on—"

"I know. I've been waiting." She sits up slightly. The bubbles slide down her skin. "Close the door, Ryan. You're letting the cold in."

I should leave. I should turn around and walk out and pretend this never happened.

I close the door behind me.

"You're confused," she says. "I can see it on your face."

"You set this up."

"I did." She doesn't deny it. "I've been planning this for months. The spare key. The trip. The convenient early return."

"Why?"

"Because I've been watching you." She leans forward. The water laps at her chest. "Three years, Ryan. Three years of watching you jog past my window. Of seeing you work in your yard. Of imagining what you'd look like without that shirt you always wear."

"Mrs. Davidson—"

"Patricia." She stands up in the tub.

Water cascades down her body. She's naked—completely, gloriously naked. And she's everything I've been afraid to imagine.

She's probably two-sixty. Maybe more. Her breasts are massive—heavy and full, nipples dark against pale skin. Her belly is soft and round, dripping with soap. Her hips are wide enough to block traffic.

"This is what you'd be getting," she says. "A fifty-two-year-old woman who hasn't been touched in four years. If that's not what you want, you can leave. I won't hold it against you."

I don't leave.

I step toward the tub.

"I've wanted you since you moved in," I hear myself saying.

Her eyes widen. "You—"

"I thought you were married. I thought you were off-limits. I told myself to stop looking, but I couldn't." I'm at the edge of the tub now. "And now you're standing here, and I—"

"Get in."

I strip. Shirt, pants, boxers—everything on the floor in seconds. I'm hard, painfully hard, and she watches me undress with hungry eyes.

"My God," she breathes. "I was right about you."

I step into the tub. The water is hot, the bubbles sliding against my skin. She wraps her arms around me, and I feel every inch of her—soft and warm and present.

"Four years," she whispers. "Four years alone. My husband left me for someone thinner. Someone younger."

"He was a fool."

"Maybe." She kisses my neck. "But you're not. Are you, Ryan?"

"No."

"Then show me."

I lift her onto the edge of the tub.

She gasps, legs spreading instinctively. The water drips from her body, pooling on the tile. I kneel in the tub, bring my face between her thighs.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." I lick her once, slow. "I've been wanting to for three years."

I bury my tongue in her.

She screams. Her hands find my head, hold me there, and I lick her like I've been practicing for this moment. She's sweet and hot and trembling.

"Oh God—yes—don't stop—"

I don't stop. I make her come twice, three times, until she's shaking and begging and pulling at my hair.

"Inside me—please—I need—"

I stand. Position myself. Look into her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

"I've been sure since you moved in." She wraps her legs around me. "Now stop asking and fuck me."

I push in.

She's tight and hot and gasping with every thrust.

The bathroom echoes with our sounds—moans, splashing, the slap of wet skin. She clings to me, her nails raking my back, her whole body shaking.

"So good—you feel so good—"

"This is what you planned?" I thrust deeper. "This is what you wanted?"

"Yes—every night—imagining this—"

I fuck her on the edge of the tub until we're both soaking. Then I carry her to the bedroom—her bedroom, the one she's slept alone in for four years—and fuck her again on sheets that smell like her.

"Tell me you want this," I growl.

"I want this—I want you—"

"Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours—God—I'm yours—"

I come inside her. Deep. Hard. And she comes with me, screaming my name, shaking in my arms.

Afterward, we lie tangled in her sheets. Wet from the bath, sweaty from the sex.

"Keep the key," she says.

"What?"

"The spare key. Keep it." She traces circles on my chest. "Use it whenever you want. My door is always open to you."

"And your bedroom?"

She smiles. Kisses me softly.

"Especially my bedroom."

I keep the key.

I use it three times the first week.

By the end of the month, I have a drawer at her place.

By the end of the year, I'm not using the key anymore.

I'm using the front door. Because I live there now.

The neighbors talk, but neither of us listens.

We're too busy making up for four years of loneliness.