The Widow Next Door

I've been taking care of Mrs. Okonkwo's yard for two years.

It started the week after Mr. Okonkwo's funeral. I saw her struggling with the lawnmower—a big riding mower that her husband always operated—and I walked over to help. "I'll handle it," I said. "You've got enough to worry about."

She cried. Right there in the yard. I held her while neighbors pretended not to notice.

After that, it just... continued. Every weekend. Mow the lawn. Trim the hedges. Clean the gutters in fall. Shovel the driveway in winter. Whatever needed doing.

She pays me in food. Nigerian dishes I can't pronounce but dream about. Jollof rice. Egusi soup. Pounded yam that sticks to your ribs for days.

And she watches me work.

It's July. Ninety-five degrees. I'm shirtless, pushing the mower across her back lawn, and I can feel her eyes on me.

She's on the patio, fanning herself with a magazine. She's wearing a sundress—yellow, thin, doing nothing to hide her curves. Adaeze Okonkwo is fifty-six years old and built like the goddess statues I've seen in art museums. Wide hips. Massive breasts. A belly that rounds out soft and full. Thighs that could crush a man.

I've been trying not to notice for two years.

I've failed.

"Come inside when you're done," she calls out. "I made chin chin."

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiles. Fans herself. Watches me push the mower.

I pretend not to notice her nipples through the thin yellow fabric.

Inside, she hands me a glass of cold water and a plate of chin chin—fried dough pieces, sweet and crunchy. I eat standing at the counter. She sits at the kitchen table, watching.

"You're a good man, Elijah," she says. "Coming over every week. Helping an old woman."

"You're not old."

"I'm fifty-six."

"That's not old." I drain the water. "And it's not a burden. I like helping."

"Why?"

The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you like helping?" She stands. Walks toward me. "Is it charity? Guilt? Obligation?"

"None of those."

"Then what?" She's close now. Close enough to smell—she smells like cocoa butter and spices and something warmer underneath. "What keeps bringing you back?"

I should lie. Should say neighborly duty or community spirit or any of the safe answers.

"You," I say instead.

She doesn't flinch.

"Me," she repeats.

"I come back because I like seeing you. Talking to you. Being around you." I set down the plate. "I come back because every week I tell myself I'll stop, and every week I can't."

"Why can't you stop?"

"Because when I'm here, everything makes sense. Because your cooking is the best thing I eat all week. Because—" I take a breath. "Because I've been falling for you since the day I held you in your front yard, and I don't know how to stop."

She stares at me. For a long moment, neither of us moves.

Then she reaches up and touches my face.

"Two years," she says softly. "I've been watching you work in my yard for two years. Shirtless in summer. Sweating. Those muscles moving under your skin."

"Ada—"

"I told myself I was too old. Too fat. That you were just being kind." Her hand slides to my chest. "But that's not it, is it?"

"No."

"You want me."

"Yes."

She takes my hand. Places it on her hip. Soft, wide, warm through the thin fabric.

"Then take me," she says. "I've been lonely long enough."

I pick her up.

She gasps—she's heavy, probably two-eighty—but I've spent two years hauling yard equipment. She weighs nothing compared to that mower.

"The bedroom," she breathes. "Down the hall."

I carry her there. Lay her on the bed she used to share with her husband. She looks up at me, vulnerable and wanting.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I haven't been touched in two years." She pulls her sundress over her head. No bra. Her breasts fall free, massive and dark-nippled. "I've never been more sure of anything."

I strip. Climb over her. Kiss her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. She arches into me, moaning, her hands finding my back.

"Elijah—"

I take my time. Kiss down her belly, across her wide hips. I spread her thick thighs and bury my face between them.

She screams.

Two years of loneliness pours out of her.

She comes on my tongue three times, shaking, crying, saying my name like a prayer. By the time I rise up and push into her, she's already begging.

"Please—yes—I need—"

She's tight and hot and gripping me like she never wants to let go. I move slowly at first, letting her feel every inch. Her body surrounds me—soft and warm and overwhelming.

"Faster," she gasps. "Please—"

I go faster. Her breasts bounce with every thrust. Her belly ripples. She wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper.

"You feel so good—God—I forgot what this felt like—"

"Get used to it." I thrust harder. "I'm not going anywhere."

She comes again, screaming, her whole body clenching. I follow her over, filling her with everything I have while she shakes beneath me.

Afterward, she lies in my arms. Both of us sweating. Both of us satisfied.

"The neighbors will talk," she murmurs.

"Let them."

"They'll say I'm robbing the cradle."

"You're fifty-six. I'm twenty-eight. It's not that scandalous." I kiss her forehead. "And I don't care what anyone says."

"What about your parents? Your friends?"

"What about them?" I pull her closer. "I'm a grown man, Ada. I decide who I'm with. And I want to be with you."

She looks up at me. Her eyes are shining.

"You really mean that."

"I really do."

She kisses me. Soft, then deeper. Then she's climbing on top of me, her weight settling onto my hips, and I'm hard again.

"Then stay," she says. "Not just for yard work. Stay."

I stay.

I move in three months later. The neighbors do talk—but not for long. They see us together, see how happy she is, and eventually they just... accept it.

I still mow her lawn.

Now I do it shirtless while she watches from our patio.

And afterward, I do a lot more.