Chapter 4: Friday Night Frustration

Sarah Kline slammed the door of 4B harder than she meant to, the sharp crack echoing down the narrow hallway like a rebuke. The little black dress she’d chosen with such hopeful care that morning now felt like a joke—sleek fabric hugging the full swell of her breasts and the generous flare of her hips, the hem skimming just above her knees in a way that had made her feel powerful and feminine when she zipped it up. Paired with strappy black heels that added a dangerous arch to her calves, it was supposed to be her night. Instead, the phone in her clutch buzzed one last time with the pathetic excuse: Sorry, work ran late and I’m wiped. Rain check?

She kicked the heels off in the entryway, watching them skid across the hardwood with a clatter that matched the irritation boiling under her skin. Thirty-one, curvy in the kind of way that turned heads in the right lighting, and still ending another Friday alone because some app guy couldn’t be bothered to follow through. The apartment air felt thicker than usual, heavy with the sticky residue of a humid spring day that refused to cool off even after sunset. She padded straight to the kitchenette in bare feet, the cool floor a small mercy against her flushed skin, and poured a generous glass of the same cheap red she’d reached for too many nights lately. The first swallow burned a warm path down her throat, loosening nothing.

She carried the wine into the bedroom, the same room where the wall had already twice turned her private evenings into something she couldn’t quite shake. The full-length mirror on the closet door caught her reflection under the soft lamplight—cheeks still pink from the walk home, dark hair escaping its loose updo in damp tendrils, the dress clinging to every dip and curve like it was mocking her effort. Sarah set the glass on the dresser and reached behind her neck to tug the zipper down slowly. The fabric sighed open, sliding off her shoulders and pooling at her feet in a dark puddle. Beneath it, the lacy black bra and matching panties she’d picked out that morning—delicate, hopeful, the kind that whispered promises to no one—looked almost ridiculous now. The bra cupped her heavy breasts with just enough lift to create a deep shadow between them; the panties sat low on her hips, the sheer panels doing nothing to hide the soft curve of her belly or the way her plush thighs pressed together.

She stared at herself a moment longer, turning slightly so the mirror showed the generous swell of her ass, the faint dimples at the base of her spine. You dressed up for this? The thought stung. She took another sip of wine, the tartness sharp on her tongue, and tried to tell herself she’d just change into something comfortable, curl up with a book, forget the whole thing. But the apartment wasn’t quiet tonight. Through the shared wall came the low murmur of voices next door—Alex’s deep rumble mixed with a woman’s bright laughter, the unmistakable clink of glasses. He had company. Of course he did.