The Widow
— Short Fiction —
Shirley was already under the covers beginning her work, and Helen’s tongue was on her neck, in her ear. Grace kept her mouth closed. In her sixty-eight years she’d never kissed a woman, and though there was something nice about it, something gentle, she wasn’t going to start now. Helen was whispering things in her ear. So she was a dirty talker. Grace had heard about women who did this, but in their forty year friendship she never would have pegged Helen as one of them.
“Does that turn you on, baby?” Helen was saying. Was she supposed to answer? Did people respond? She moaned.
Under the covers Shirley had slipped Grace’s silk pajama bottoms down. She was licking the inside of her thigh. Prior to that she’d licked the bottom of her stomach as lovingly as a puppy dog. This was the difference between men and women. When Henry, God rest his soul, would go under the covers, it was all business. The way he did it, she hated to admit it now, always irritated her more than anything. But how she missed him. The months since he’d been gone had been wicked. She’d known grief before — her mother, her sister — but this was a surprise. This felt like terror. Often when she thought of him her heart would pound and she’d become breathless. She couldn’t eat. She’d lost weight. Had stopped coloring her hair. It was almost all white now. Oh, what she wouldn’t…
