When I brushed against my bare inner labia, soft as a breath, I gasped.The two women chatting two tables behind me didn’t notice, the barista somewhere in the back. Even the low lull of Asleep on the counter-top-radio excited me. Without walls, privacy willingly abandoned, I spread my knees another inch and slowly pushed a single finger deep in my slippery pussy.My inner muscles contracted around it. I didn’t move for a moment, feeling my warm inner flesh, drawing out that first touch. I was tight inside myself, my upright position not meant for penetration. Keeping my arm still, I shut my eyes, reveling in the feel of my smooth sex. I imagined Ava was feeling me. Considering my hand in the second person, pretending it wasn’t wired to my thoughts but someone else’s, someone dying to get me off in this quiet little coffee shop.I held onto my moan and let out an exhale, the tip of my finger beginning to twitch. Opening my eyes to ascertain I didn’t have an active audience, I started to. We lived on opposite sides of town, separated by long bus lines. Even if we continued to live next door to each other, there was only so much social life that could be expected by a woman in her twenties and a boy just breaking into teenhood, despite the fact that I took after my Uncle Frank in that I rapidly began to look older than my years.Yet our world persisted. Adamantly. Secretly.We wrote short letters now and then, or sent cards, with Martha Jane afraid to write anything momentous for fear of my folks getting their hands on it.We were apart more often than together. Martha Jane and I were in school and she worked most weekends. But she attended my thirteenth birthday, held at my Grandma Rose's home. It was a small gathering of a dozen or so survivors of my first dad's immediate circle. There was my Aunt Lucille and her husband, Uncle Jack, a strange pair whose actual relationship to my father was so convoluted that no one could explain it. They stubbornly maintained that.
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