Walking through the dining room, I make my way into the kitchen. I recall the way I startled the doc earlier. She had a similar reaction to me the first time we met, several years ago when I scared the shit out of her outside her office. I didn’t mean to… However, I didn’t necessarily make my presence known before approaching her either.
Her reaction, though completely understandable, amused me. But the way her long, wavy-brown hair blew gently in the breeze, wafting her floral perfume my way, stirred something in me. Something I’ve come to associate with the kind of guilt that eats away at your soul until you feel like a hollow version of the person you once were, with no sign of salvation.
It’s the same feeling I had to fight through every time I had sex with Eva. At first, it was unbearable, and she thought I was disgusted by her in some way. I finally managed to convince her it was a medical condition and didn’t have anything to do with her. I thought, eventually, it would go away. That I would one day be able to forgive myself for what I did to Lillian. But the entire time I was with Eva, that guilt was ever present.
I spot the doc’s phone plugged in on the counter and hope her charger is the kind that fits my phone. I need to power it up just enough to get Atty’s phone number. Fuck our reliance on these phones. We have no need to memorize anyone’s phone numbers any longer. I breathe a sigh of relief when the screen turns on, but the red flashing battery icon tells me my phone is dead-dead, and it’s going to take a couple minutes before I can even power it on.
I leave it on the counter and dig into my pockets for a cigarette as I walk back toward the front door. But when I flip open the pack of Marlboros, annoyance rocks through me when I see it’s empty.
Motherfucker.
Grinding my molars, I tell myself it’s fine…
My phone will be working in a few minutes, and then Atty will be here shortly after that. I’ll be out of here—the box I feel trapped inside of with the only woman who has ever made my dick twitch—in no time.
I pace the foyer for a minute, not wanting to go back into the kitchen to stare at a phone, waiting for it to charge. When my eyes land on the closed door on the far end of the foyer, I attempt to talk myself out of crossing any more of the doc’s personal boundaries this evening.
But I fail. Miserably.
I walk to the door and open it quietly, curious to see what’s behind it.
When I’m met with a set of stairs, I tell myself to close the door and wait patiently in the kitchen.
But that’s just not in my nature.
I’m thankful I didn’t put my boots back on yet—the noisy, shit-kickers they are. I climb the stairs slowly until I reach the top, making sure to stick to the edge of the steps where they meet the wall—less chance of the old wood making a noise and blowing up my spot that way.
On the landing, I’m met with a door that opens up onto a balcony as well as another hallway that, I presume, leads to the bedrooms.
Apparently, I do possess some measure of decency and respect for others when I opt to check out the small outside space instead of snooping around in what I assume are the more private areas of the doc’s house.
I crack the door open and listen out for any sign of movement or any indication that someone may have heard me. When I’m met with silence, I open the door farther and step outside.
Her house is set in the middle of a fork in the road about three quarters of a mile from the heart of town. I’m sure when this house was built, the scenery from where I stand was breathtaking. Not that it isn’t any longer, but instead of what was once miles of empty fields and hills sprawled out before me is now covered with houses and businesses. Like the bank that sits almost directly in my line of sight.
When I turn to check the view in the other direction, I find this one is much better.
Way more desirable.
My breath leaves me when I spot the doc through the sheer curtain in the window of a door on the opposite side of the balcony. She’s lying in the middle of her mattress, bathed in a sea of fluffy, white bedding. Her chestnut curls are spread across the pillow she’s resting her head on.
My dick grows hard just before the heavy weight of guilt sets in.
Adjusting my jeans, I realize that her eyes are squeezed shut. Her brow is furrowed, as though she’s frustrated or concentrating hard on something.
I think she’s having a nightmare until I realize there’s something moving beneath her blanket. Right where I assume her legs begin. The details begin to click into place as a delicious moan fills my ears through the thin glass pane of the window.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and my heart thumps like the bass of a techno beat in my chest. The familiar, aching guilt I feel when I begin to get even remotely turned-on shoots through my stomach. I force myself to avert my gaze from the sight of the doc pleasuring herself before me.
