The Neighbor on
the Fire Escape

He comes every night. The fire escape is our place—narrow, rusted, still warm from the sweltering day. After my shower I leave the window open, a silent invitation. He climbs in without a word, pulls the damp towel from my hips, and sinks to his knees. I grip the railing and watch the alley below as his mouth works me slow and thorough, my thighs trembling until I’m gripping the metal just to stay upright. When he stands and pushes me forward, every thrust presses my palms and tits against the rough brick. A door slams somewhere below and we both freeze—his hand clamps over my mouth, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, grinding slow, then finishes inside me with a groan against my shoulder. In the humid dark, we stay locked together, my neighbor who’s half my age and twice as hungry, his older lover who knows exactly what she’s doing. Neither of us moves first.