Preparations

The clock reads one minute to seven and Linda still sits in nothing but her fuzzy robe, mascara still uncapped. Hazel storms in with one stocking on and the rest tucked under her arm, takes one look at the clock, and shrugs so hard the stocking flutters to the floor. "Well," she says, letting the robe slip, "we tried." A laugh pops out of Linda like a champagne cork and suddenly both are in the tub without running a drop of water, legs tangled, mouths busy and sloppy. Hazel’s breath fogs the mirror every time Linda drags two fingers through the slick between her thighs; Linda returns the favor by sitting on Hazel’s face until she has to grab the towel rack just to keep from buckling. The taps clatter, the mirror drips, every curve slips against another curve, wet and shining. They trade places and positions without breaking rhythm—sometimes straddling the edge of the sink, sometimes kneeling on the bathmat—until Hazel’s toes curl around the toilet seat and Linda finally grinds herself off against Hazel’s thigh. Panting and grinning, they look at each other’s smeared makeup and wrecked hair. "Best plan we’ve had all week," Linda rasps, and neither makes a move toward the doorbell.