Melanie Hicks

Melanie slides the door shut. Her house-warming suitcase taps the hardwood once, then everything begins. Her brother-in-law pins her hips against the kitchen island while the kettle clicks. Her sundress bunched at the waist, thighs parted, skirt tugged up until the fabric bites her ribs. His belt hangs, buckle grazing her calf, while she murmurs promises between breaths. Three scenes later she's on her nephew's lap, blouse open, voice soft. "Tell me what I need to do to stay." He answers by guiding her hand down, fingers still slick from before. She sinks onto him with a slow roll, head dropped, hair brushing her mouth. Short strokes give way to long ones; quick gasps melt into low, ragged moans. They move like animals through rooms. Couch cushions slide under her knees. Laundry room dryer rattles her hips. Stairwell banister leaves a pale line across her stomach, light enough to vanish beneath a silk slip, deep enough to remember later. A locked car backseat beneath streaming summer rain. Late-night hallway, towel clutched in fist. Office at dusk, shoes on but nothing else. Each frame shows her in profile—head tossed back, throat exposed, the quiet, deliberate snap of hips punctuated by the soft leather moan of a belt pulled taut. By dawn she is bent over the suitcase again, unlatched this time, sun cutting a clean stripe across the curve of her spine. She's already dressed—heels buckled, stockings smooth—but for the backward glance over one bare shoulder, lip caught between teeth, as though the day ahead is merely intermission.