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Anita texted me in December. Come watch her work, she said. I said yes. She was already at the laptop when I got there, legs spread, one heel hooked on the chair edge. The camera stayed on her face while her fingers worked between her thighs. She stroked slow at first, then faster, until the silk of her dress bunched around her waist. A soft noise left her when she pressed two fingers inside. She smiled at the lens like the men on the other side could hear her breathing get heavier. I watched her knuckles disappear, come back wet, disappear again. She laughed once, quiet, and licked her fingers before she went right back in.