Chapter 10: Behind the Glass

The week passed like every other week.

I went to school. My parents went to work. From the outside, we looked like any other normal family, the kind that ate dinner together, that laughed at the same TV shows, that waved goodbye to neighbors on Sunday mornings.

But I knew what lurked beneath the surface now.

Friday arrived with the slow, inevitable pull of a tide I couldn’t resist. I’d arranged to borrow my mother’s car, some excuse about studying at the library. A little coy smile flashed across my lips as I wondered if the librarian would be working tonight. The woman with the reading glasses and the tight bun, the one who’d dropped to her knees without hesitation in that red-lit booth.

Dinner came and went. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans that my mother had steamed to perfection. I pushed the food around my plate, my stomach a knot of nerves and anticipation.

My parents left at their usual time. A casual wave from my father. A kiss on my forehead from my mother. “Don’t wait up, sweetie.”

Yeah. A drive to Carl’s.

I waited ten minutes. Then I grabbed Megan’s ID, slipped into the Honda, and drove to the gas station across from the bookstore. My father’s sedan sat in the lot, familiar and ordinary, like it belonged in a church parking lot instead of outside a place where his wife took strangers’ cocks in her throat.

I parked, took a breath, and crossed the street.

The bell above the door chimed as I entered. Carl looked up from the counter, his greying hair catching the fluorescent light. He didn’t reach for the ID this time, just nodded.

“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, Megan.”

I swallowed. “I was wondering if there’s a live show tonight.”

His eyebrows rose. A slow smile spread across his weathered face. “You’re in luck. Stacey’s performing tonight. She’s a favorite.”

“How does it work?”

“Twenty bucks gets you a seat in the observation room. One-way glass. You can see everything, but they can’t see you. Show starts at nine.”

My heart hammered as I pulled a crumpled twenty from my pocket. Carl took it, his thick fingers brushing mine, and pointed toward the back.

“Second door on the left past the lounge. Red light means the show’s live. Green means it’s empty. You want a drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned back to his magazine, dismissing me.

The beaded curtain rattled as I pushed through. The familiar smell hit me, stale cum, cheap perfume, the metallic tang of latex and sweat. My pulse quickened as I passed the gloryhole booths. One of the doors had a red light. The librarian’s booth. I didn’t stop to peek this time.

The observation room door was ajar, the light above it glowing red.

I pushed it open and slipped inside.

The room was small and dark, lined with a single bench along the back wall. The far wall was a mirror, one-way glass, I realized, looking into a brightly lit room on the other side. A stage. Vinyl-covered mattress on the floor. A table with bottles of lube and a box of condoms. The air on this side was cool and still, filtered through a vent that carried sound from the other room.

I sat on the bench, my hands gripping my knees, and waited.

The door on the other side opened.

Stacey entered.

She was beautiful. The moment Stacey stepped into the light, my breath caught in my throat. She looked like an older version of Scarlett Johansson when she played Black Widow in Iron Man 2, that same shoulder-length reddish hair, catching the fluorescent glow like autumn leaves in sunlight. Her build was the same, too, those strong shoulders and full curves, but the years had left their mark. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes. A softness in her belly that came with time. Her facial features were close, that same sharp jaw, those same full lips, but the resemblance wasn’t perfect. It was better. It was her own.