Interstitial
was one of the smaller houses in the neighborhood, yet it was nestled back against the tree line, which gave it an air of
privacy. The main bedroom only had one window, and as soon as they were inside, they didn’t have to hide. They could embrace
as any couple would; they could tumble to the floor in the exact space a bed would be. Like all the houses in Briar Ridge,
there was still no actual furniture—not even a stray chair or curtain—but it didn’t matter. Here, they were together. Despite
the rug burns on their knees, the straining of their thighs, the desperation that fueled each of their kisses, here, it felt
the most real. Ah, the Hemlock house, they’d text each other every third week, reveling in the relief. After all, they had to keep a careful rotation—could not
be caught together in this space, at the same time, day after day. Theirs was a delicate lie.