By sunset, the temperature had cooled, but a sultry weight still clung to the air of Firefly Lane. Kindall stepped onto her front porch with a cold glass of lemonade and sank into the cushions of her wicker chair. She wore a loose pink tank, braless again, her legs tucked beneath her in soft cotton shorts.
Milo lay at her feet, dozing. She glanced up when she heard movement close by. Rick, her next door neighbor with the vintage Mustang, was sweeping his driveway. Again. The same five-foot stretch he’d already gone over twice. He wasn’t even looking down. His eyes flicked toward her porch every few seconds. And once, when he caught her gaze, he flushed red and looked away like a boy caught peeking through a keyhole.
Mr. Romano, on the other hand, had abandoned his tools entirely. He sat in a folding chair just outside his garage, sipping a beer, pretending to read a newspaper that never turned a page. His sunglasses might’ve hidden his eyes, but the angle of his head told her exactly where his attention was.
Kindall smiled. They're getting bolder, she thought.
Then came the sound of Joe’s truck. He pulled into her driveway and rolled down the window slowly. His elbow hung over the sill like he had all the time in the world, but his jaw was tight, and she could see the nerves behind his eyes.
“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.”
“You’re not,” she said easily, brushing her blonde hair behind one ear. “Just enjoying the view.”
Joe smiled. “Yeah… me too.”
There was a pause, quiet but thick. The mood felt different this time. Joe's expression looked serious. Like he had something heavy on his mind.
“Can I ask you something?” he said after a moment.
Kindall set her drink down. “Of course, Joe. What is it?”
Joe shifted in his seat. “Are you… doing all this on purpose?”
She blinked, surprised—and impressed—by the bluntness. “Define 'all this.'”
“You know what I mean,” he said, voice low. “Walking in skin-tight yoga pants, washing your car in a bikini… the way you smile like you’re in on a joke the rest of us missed.”
Kindall let the silence stretch, then stood slowly to walk toward his truck, feeling the hot pavement beneath her bare feet with every step. She leaned her arms casually on the window frame, close enough now that he could smell the citrus on her lips.
“Does it really bother you that I wear yoga pants?” she asked softly. “I’m just comfortable in my own skin. And that's hardly a crime.”
He swallowed. “No,” he said quickly. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” she tilted her head. “You’ve been watching me since the day I moved in. And no, I don’t mind. You’re just doing what men do. But you never say what you’re really thinking.”
Joe looked straight ahead for a moment, as if that might steady him. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Not making what easy?” Kindall asked, her eyebrows raised now.
He turned back to her, his expression looking all the more conflicted. He tried hard not to look at her perky nipples that showed through her t shirt, but it was kind of hard not to look, especially for a breast man, and most especially for a man who hadn't seen his wife's in a very long time.
His gaze clung to her, slow and heavy, tracing over the shape of each nipple with the slowness of a fingertip tracing silk. He imagined their warmth, their rose-petal softness against his lips.
"You were saying?" Kindall's voice suddenly awoke him from his trance.
“Yeah... I was saying... Oh, that's right..."
"I’m married,” he finally managed to say with a long drawn-out breath.
Kindall nodded. “Yes, I know."
So why are you telling me that? Kindall wondered silently. Then she smiled and pushed off the truck window, stepping back.
“Drive safe, Joe,” she said, her tone soft but unreadable.
He didn’t say anything as he pulled away, and Kindall felt a chill in the air as his truck disappeared down the street.
Although their flirty banter had felt harmless, she got a sense Joe felt tempted to cross that invisible line he hovered so close to.
Back on the porch, her lemonade had gone warm. And across the street, Rick’s broom hadn’t moved in five full minutes.
. . . . . .
Joe didn’t sleep well that night.
He lay in bed, the ceiling fan above him whirring a soft rhythm that failed to quiet his thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her: Kindall. That ephemeral beauty he couldn't stop thinking about.
Of course, how could he forget that tantalizing image of her washing her car, soaking wet in that translucent t shirt? The way she had bent over the hood of her car... even the way her voice dropped to just above a whisper when she said his name would forever be burned into his mind.
And that question she’d asked him: Does it bother you?
He wished he’d answered differently, for the sake of his conscience. The guilt came in waves, ebbing and flowing, never fully retreating. He hadn’t done anything… not really. But he wanted to. And his frustration was growing. Of course, it wasn't technically Kindall's fault he was so frustrated. The source of his frustration wasn't just that he hadn't seen his wife's breasts in a long time. He hadn't seen any action at all in years. Besides his own hand, that is.
Joe was a man at a crossroads. He started to realize he could either go the rest of his life this way—at the risk of going crazy—or he could find a playmate, someone who could give him the release he desperately needed. He had no desire to divorce. But he also knew that playing with the girl next door, only a few houses down from him, felt dangerously close to home.