The Repo Woman

Tara watches two men dismantle her life in heavy boots and work gloves, dragging heirlooms into the back of a van. Georgia leans on the porch rail, chewing gum, eyes flat. She walks over and snaps the chain from Tara’s neck like it’s payment owed. Tara feels the air on her throat. The necklace hangs on Georgia now, glinting just above the top button of her uniform. Tara’s voice cracks when she begs: keep anything but this. She lists her mother’s earrings, her grandmother’s clock, the picture her great-grandmother saved. Georgia raises an eyebrow, bored, then amused. Tara steps close, palms Georgia’s breast through the cotton shirt, squeezes hard, then drags her fingers down to the denim between Georgia’s legs and rubs. Wet heat pushes back. Georgia lets the kiss happen, tongue tasting cola and salt. They sink onto the half-stripped sofa. Georgia lifts her hips, sheds her panties, spreads her knees, and watches Tara’s mouth go straight to work, licking slow then rough, swallowing every sound Georgia makes. Moments later Georgia drags Tara by the hair, spins her around, and opens her up the same way, tongue sliding deep while fingers pull the silver necklace taut across Tara’s collarbone. Both women shake, breath caught between silk and debt, the last of the daylight sliding across bare skin and borrowed silver.