My mother and the landlord (Slow burn, long read)

[Authorsunny]

Author's note:

Feel free to share your thoughts, inputs, and suggestions on where this should go next. This is my first attempt at writing erotic stories, so I’m very open to ideas and adaptations — as long as they fit the overall scope of the story.

Drop them here in the thread or in DMs. That includes how the next few days should play out, or something unexpected that could happen.
Happy to brainstorm.

If you want to reach me directly, DM me on Telegram: @SPD778

[V1star]

Energetic star anjali

[Paty@123]

Right now son is in psychological stress, he is not in a position to take a decision how he has got forward in this, one side Ammi mother of azad is seeing his mother as a whore, and other side he has recognised his mother sacrifices of him for five years, which is the point his mother is stressing repeated and, and also she stressed she cannot go bach from her physical needs,for which he has agreed with mental stress,now the word which he has given to his mother, with all these things his mind has become clumsy and he need rest for mind for some time, Now a time has come he has to take a decision, I think he has got separate himself from mother, which he can not,

[V1star]

Episode ended peacefully.... without any hook.
Thankyou.
So sunny can't do anything right now except taking shit from everyone around.
Any way...Anjali will get her quota from ammi.
Then Anjali will creat one more emotional episode,then sunny would have to take so so much shitt.

[Paty@123]

Right from the beginning sunni has also observed Azad is trying to make him as submissive cuckson which though Anjali is not co operating directly but not objecting Ajad, with all these things,keep in mind with plae that office is nearer he has to shift from there and spy on mother to search for ways to take a revenge on Azad carefully

[Paty@123]

ఎపిసోడ్ ఎలాంటి ట్విస్ట్ లేకుండా ప్రశాంతంగా ముగిసింది.
ధన్యవాదాలు.
కాబట్టి సన్నీ ఇప్పుడు చుట్టూ ఉన్న అందరి నుండి తిట్లు తినడం తప్ప ఏమీ చేయలేడు.
ఏదేమైనా... అంజలికి అమ్మి నుండి తన వంతు తిట్లు పడతాయి.
ఆ తర్వాత అంజలి మరో ఎమోషనల్ ఎపిసోడ్ సృష్టిస్తుంది, అప్పుడు సన్నీ చాలా చాలా తిట్లు తినాల్సి వస్తుంది.

This is not sufficient, he has prove his credibility as a man

[Aragon]

This is hight time, Sunny should see their sex encounter...

[Paty@123]

ఇదే సరైన సమయం, సన్నీ వాళ్ళ శృంగార కలయికను చూడాలి...

I think need not, he has already seen it in his nightmare

[V1star]

Sunny knows Mondays plan,and still choose to stay at office,after returning from office there are n number of things he saw/observed which revealed the intensity of the afternoon,still he did not become desparate to fap.
And the final talk with himself before sleep....
I think he will fab badly for his mom tomorrow morning before his mom wakes up.
If not I believe he changed/habituated/less excited about his mom and her arrangement with azad.he won't put any efforts to sneak into it,if they planned in his absence.

[Ayush01111]

Sir i know this is story of mother lust and child mental peace once he try to accept on other hand he find it wron next second be is felling for own mom. This isbson point of view can we see mother point of view or realry check on mom what is happening with his own son cant she see as i can see son will never ask any question till he is sover so make him High let there is talk

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 26 – Tuesday  
2 December 2025 – Tuesday

The grill was holding that same first grey light again. Not morning yet. Only the colour that comes before morning.

I woke before the alarm. For a second the room felt the same as June. Same bed. Same fan. Same thin curtain. Then the rest of yesterday sat down on my chest, one piece at a time. The shut windows. The purple cloth on the chair. The bin. Ammi’s notes in my pocket. The grey satin.

Ma was already up.

She was in the kitchen corner in the same satin nighty from last night. Grey. Smooth. Wrong cloth for a stove, but she had not changed. The tube light was still off. Only the stove flame and the grill light made her visible. She was standing with one hand on the counter and the other on her lower back. She pressed there, once, slow, as if the muscle had not agreed to stand yet. Then she took the hand away and turned the roti on the tawa.

I did not ask.

I went to the bathroom and closed the door as far as it would close. The latch still did not catch. 

When I came out my formal shirt was on the chair. Ironed. Light cream today. She had done that while I was still turning on the bed. The shoes were near the door. My tiffin was already on the folding table.

Only one tiffin.

Yesterday there had been two carriers. Mine and the larger one for downstairs. Today there was only my small steel box. Closed. A clean cloth under it so the table would not stain.

I opened the lid a little. Dry sabzi. Two rotis. A small katori of pickle. Nothing extra. No kheer. No second box. Simple food. The kind she packed when the morning had no performance in it.

She pressed her lower back again while reaching for the tea cups. The satin pulled across her seat. She made a small sound that was not a word, then she stood straight as if she had remembered I was in the room.

“Tea is ready,” she said. “Come.”

I sat. She sat opposite me. The loose wooden leg of the chair made its usual small complaint. The silver bracelet was on her wrist. The gold chain was in the hollow of her throat. The purple polish on her fingers looked duller in this light, but it was still there.

We drank tea.

I looked at the single tiffin again.

“You didn’t pack for downstairs today?” I asked.

She tore a small piece of roti for herself. She did not look up at once.

“I will make for them later,” she said. 

“Their maid will be back today, right?”

“No.” She shook her head once. “Their maid will take longer. Some village work. Azad Sahab told me yesterday. So I will keep sending food for some more time. What to do.”

She said it like a duty that had already been signed.

Then she added, a little slower, “Azad Sahab likes the food I make. Ammi also eats better when the box goes from here. Both of them like it a little spicy. Your food I keep simple. Their lunch I will make after you go. Garlic will be more. You don’t like that smell in the morning box. That's why I didn't prepare it early morning.”

She looked awkward saying it. The words came in a straight line, but her eyes went to the table, then to the stove, then back to the table. 

I nodded. I did not push further.

After a few sips she put her cup down and wiped the edge of the table with her fingers, the same habit she had when the talk was about money.

“Sunny,” she said. “This month's
house money?”

I knew this talk. It came every month near the first.

My salary is around thirty-five thousand. That is the number that lands in the account when the company is on time. Out of that I used to give her twenty five thousand. She handled almost everything with that twenty — rent, light bill, gas, ration, oil, milk, the small things that finish without making noise. I kept the rest for travel, phone, a little saving that never grew much, and the kind of spending she said I would do if the full amount stayed with me.

She had said that herself, months ago, when I first started earning. Give it to me. I will run the house. You will finish it on food outside and on things you don’t need.

I had agreed. It had felt simple then.

Now the rent was not twelve thousand. It was seven. Five thousand less every month. I still gave her twenty five. She had said she would save the difference better than I would. Put it aside. Don’t let the house become loose just because one line in the expense had become lighter.

Salary usually comes on the first of the next month. I transfer to her by the second or the third. Rent in this building is due by the fifth. That is how the society works. Watchman, register, Azad Sahab’s collection. No long drama if the money reaches on time.

Today was the second.

She was asking because the calendar had reached the place where the money was supposed to move.

“Ma, actually this month salary has not been credited yet,” I said. 

Her hand stopped on the cup.

“Not credited? Why?”

“Some payment issue in the company. Accounts side. They said it will take time. Maybe a week. Maybe a little more. Not sure.”

She looked at my face the way she used to look when I had a fee date in college and the money was still being arranged.

“Job is all right, no? They are not saying anything else?”

“Yes Ma, job is all right. Only the credit is late. Delivery week is on. Work is there. Money is delayed. That’s all.”

She sat with that for a few seconds. The stove made a low sound. Outside, a milkman called from the lane.

“Rent is on fifth,” she said.

“I know.”

“Azad Sahab will understand.” She said it quickly, then seemed to hear herself and added more. “He even told few days back… we should stop giving rent. Altogether. He said no need. I told him no. I cannot do that. Whatever is there, rent should go. Light bill should go. House things should go as they are. Otherwise it does not look good.”

She held my eyes for a second when she said whatever is there.

I understood the sentence she had not put in the middle.

I looked at my tea.

A part of me said she should have accepted the no-rent offer. The whole building already had a story. Mrs. Desai had a story. Sunita Aunty had a story. The boys at the gate had a story. He had already been in this room. He had already been on this bed. I had seen enough to know that. Taking seven thousand from the same house after that felt like a play. Like we were still pretending this was only landlord and tenant.

Another part of me did not want that offer to become real.

If we paid rent, even seven, I still had one line that belonged to me. I transferred. She paid. The register had a number. I was not eating every month from his pocket in a way that had no name. The bike was already enough. The reduced rent was already enough. Ammi’s two thousand was sitting in my wallet from last night and I had not told her. If the rent also stopped, what was I in this house. A son who locked the door from outside and came back to eat.

I wanted to pay.

I also knew that paying did not clean the rest.

I did not say any of that.

I only said, “We will give the rent. When the salary comes I will transfer. If it is late we will see.”

She nodded, a little relieved, a little still worried.

“Don’t take tension of office,” she said. “Do your work properly. Money will come. Eat the sabzi, it has come out dry today. I didn’t put extra water.”

I ate. The sabzi was simple. Jeera. Potato. Soft roti. Tea the way I liked it, strong, more sugar. For a few minutes the morning tried to look like a morning.

Then, I was near the door, ready to leave, bag on one shoulder, when the bell rang.

It was early for a delivery. It was early for a neighbour. Ma was still in the kitchen corner. I was closer to the door.

I opened it.

Behind me I heard her voice, sudden, hurried.

“Wait. I will take it.”

She was coming. Satin, payal, a little too fast than usual.

But the door was already open.

A boy was standing outside. Thin. Sixteen or seventeen maybe. Small black polythene bag in hand. 

He held the bag out to me.

I took it because that is what you do when a bag is put in your hand.

“Sunny, give it to me,” Ma said from behind. “You should leave. You will get late.”

I did not understand. I opened the mouth of the polythene a little with two fingers.

Skin. Bone. Red-white flesh. Cut pieces of chicken. The smell came up fast and filled the space between my face and the bag.

My hand opened before I decided to open it.

The bag dropped.

It hit the floor. The pieces did not spill. A small sound, wet and soft, on our threshold.

The boy looked surprised. He looked at the bag, then at my face, then at Ma.

“Madam, money is already paid,” he said. “Azad Sahab paid. I should go.”

He went down the stairs without waiting for a tip or a signature. His slippers slapped the steps.

I was still standing with the empty shape of the bag in my hands. My face had done the thing it does when meat is too close in the morning. I do not eat it. I have not eaten it for years. The smell stays in a small house. It stays in curtains. It stays in the steel box.

Ma bent and picked the bag up at once.

“Huhh. I told you to give it to me.”

No long speech. No sorry. She took the polythene inside as if it was onions.

She put it in a steel plate near the sink and washed her fingers.

Then she spoke to the plate, and to me.

“Azad Sahab said yesterday. Ammi does not eat properly if it is only dal-sabzi every time. Doctor has said this and that, but she still needs some strength. He told me to make non-veg today. That is why this chicken.”

She wiped her hands on the cloth.

“I will keep some for you also if you want to try. You never eat. Maybe now—”

“No.”

The word came out sharp. I did not make it softer after.

She looked at me once. She did not argue. She tied the bag again and pushed the plate further into the kitchen corner, as if moving it two feet would move the smell.

“Go,” she said. “Otherwise you will face traffic.”

I washed my hands and then picked up my bag. The tiffin inside it was still only potato and roti. I did not look at the chicken plate again.

At the door I locked from outside. The sound was the same as yesterday. The difference was the smell that stayed on my fingers even after I had not touched the meat for more than two seconds.

The corridor was empty on our floor.

Second floor, empty.

First floor was not empty.

Sunita Aunty was on the landing with a suitcase. Not a small bag. A proper suitcase, the kind that means more than one night. Two children stood near her, one holding a water bottle, one holding a small college bag that was not for college today. Her husband was locking their door. He had a backpack on one shoulder and the look of a man who is calculating time.

They were rushing.

My heart went faster the moment I saw her hair and the small black bindi. Thursday was still in this concrete. Her eyes knew how to do a job without raising a hand.

She saw me.

She did not miss the chance.

She turned her face a little toward her husband, but the words were thrown where I would have to take them.

“See, the boy is going down with his box. And from their house the other boxes keep going downstairs. Whole building is eating from one kitchen now. Some women have found a new way to pay rent it seems.”

It was crude. It was meant to hit. It hit.

Her husband caught her wrist the way a person catches a glass that is about to fall in a corridor.

“Chup. Enough.”

He said it low, but it was firm. The children looked at the suitcase instead of at me. He looked at me and tried to put a normal sentence on top of the one she had thrown.

“Office, beta? We are getting late for the bus. Sunita and the kids are going to her mayka for some days. Small holiday.”

“Yes, uncle. Office.”

My voice came out thin. I did not stay for more.

I went down fast. Ground floor. His heavy door was shut. I did not look at it longer than I needed to. Compound. Bike. Helmet. Tiffin on the hook.

Sunita Aunty’s words sat in the helmet with me.

A new way to pay rent.

[firing]

Humiliation sunny will face in the society is perfectly written

[kaninikamini]

Honestly, this feels overblown because of Sunny himself ...his mother has been single and raised him by herself ,she's allowed to live her life too ..if Sunny expects her to be single and lonely forever that's just silly ..the question is if Azad truly loves his mother and isn't just using her for fun then there's no reason for Sunny to be this bothered.

It would hot if Sunny can accept his cuck feelings and confess it to his mother and Azad ...and they let him watch
Azad is the bull and Sunny is the cuck ...then all 3 can actually be happy but for this Azad needs to love his mother and also genuinely care about Sunny too

[Leo Arya]

Small update...
Hopefully you will add some spices on the next update..

[Paty@123]

Now it is high time, he has to go out and prove himself not as a cuckson, if he has accepted, he has to accept everything and he has to kill himself for everything like taking the money, if he takes that decision, he has to undergo humiliation from ammi and other tenants, How it willbe is depends on psychological conditions of sunni and how writer designed the story

[Paty@123]

Very small update and early updates are appreciated, we are waiting

[V1star]

I'm very happy with the way story is progressing.
Just like a movie where a fight after fight happens without any emotional connect will become disaster.
There has to be a emotional connect & drama should work out well....
Then only the fight scene will make us whistle.
Similarly writer bro...is not writing a sex scene after sex scene, continues bang bang.and he is not letting Anjali fucked by sunny,desai, or that chicken delivery boy.
With limited characters, with a lot of drama...
Sweet box scene,monthly money/rent scene,this chicken delivery scene with Anjali
Ammi's remarks,Sunitha's remarks and her husband coverup.
&  Furthermore Sunny's feelings regarding everything.
Is going very well for me.

[V1star]

I'm very happy with the way story is progressing.
Just like a movie where a fight after fight happens without any emotional connect will become disaster.
There has to be a emotional connect & drama should work out well....
Then only the fight scene will make us whistle.
Similarly writer bro...is not writing a sex scene after sex scene, continues bang bang.and he is not letting Anjali fucked by sunny,desai, or that chicken delivery boy.
With limited characters, with a lot of drama...
Sweet box scene,monthly money/rent scene,this chicken delivery scene with Anjali
Ammi's remarks,Sunitha's remarks and her husband coverup.
&  Furthermore Sunny's feelings regarding everything.
Is going very well for me.

But stil....sunny taking shit from everyone is a bit concern for me.

[Authorsunny]

Chapter 26 – Tuesday  
2 December 2025 – Tuesday

I kicked the engine. I did not look at the first-floor window. I rolled into the lane.

Milkmen. College buses. The first office scooters. Same road as yesterday. Different weight on the chest.

The office building took me in the way it always did. Card. Nod. Lift. Fourth floor. East windows.

Rohan said Monday felt like it had not ended. Vikram was already on a sheet. Mr. Sinha walked past once with a file and did not stop at my desk. That was a small mercy. I opened the laptop. I opened the module I had left in a clean state last evening.

From the outside the morning was smooth.

I did my tickets. I answered one message on the group. I drank water. I did not go to the pantry when the first tea round happened.

Inside, I did what I had done yesterday.

I checked last seen.

9:52.

Then 10:14.

Then 10:31.

It was moving.

Not frozen at one time like yesterday. Online, offline, online again. A person with a phone in the house. Cooking. Messaging. Waiting. Or only cooking. The phone does not tell the difference. It only tells that the hands are not away from it for three hours.

I put the phone face down after every check and then took it out again after some time. I knew I was doing it. I still did it.

At twelve-forty I opened the tiffin at the desk. Dry sabzi. Soft roti. The smell of our kitchen, not their garlic. Sameer passed, saw the steel, grinned, said home food, and went. I ate slowly.

I thought of the black polythene on our floor.

I thought of Ammi’s mouth, which did not smile at me last night, eating chicken from our kadhai this afternoon.

I thought of Ma’s hand on her lower back.

Then a meeting came.

Three o’clock. Conference room. Shared screen. Client on the call. Mr. Sinha at the head. My module was one small part of a longer deck. I had to speak two times. My voice stayed even. The numbers were right. For forty minutes I could not open WhatsApp without looking like a person who was not in the room.

That helped.

The pictures still came, but they had to stand behind the slides. Chicken. Satin. First-floor suitcase. Last seen. They waited.

By the time the call ended it was past four. I finished the leftover comments. I packed the empty tiffin. Traffic on the map looked kinder than yesterday.

I left for home.

I reached the compound around six.

December evening in our lane is not cold the way people think December is cold. The air is only a little less heavy. Shop lights were on. The vegetable vendor was still there. Children were fewer. Sunita’s window on the first floor was dark. That dark felt like a small gap in the building’s mouth.

I parked. I took the bag. I climbed.

Third floor. Our door.

I rang.

She opened faster than yesterday.

No long wait. No broken “coming” through the wood. The latch moved. The door opened.

She looked sleepy.

Not the morning kitchen face. The other face. Eyes a little swollen. Hair open and flattened on one side. She was not in the satin nighty now. She was in a soft cotton saree. The blouse was sleeveless. Dark maroon. The pallu was not pinned properly. It had slipped and she had only thrown it back once. The cloth of the saree was crumpled, as if she had lain down in it and then stood up because the bell rang.

The room behind her was not shut the way it had been yesterday. One window was open a little. The tube light was on.

The first smell was not sex.

It was balm.

That strong white balm smell that sits on skin and then sits on cloth. I knew it from the times she had a headache after parlour shifts, years ago.

I stepped in. I put the bag down.

“Ma, you put balm? Everything alright?” I asked.

“Back,” she said. She touched her lower back with two fingers, over the saree. “From morning only it is paining. Nothing much. I will manage. I put balm and lay down for some time.”

Nothing much.

I looked at her face. Sleepy. Soft. A little careful.

Two days. Yesterday afternoon on this bed. Today a back that needed balm. Cooking chicken and standing at the stove can do that. Other things can also do that. I did not have a photograph. I only had a thought that did not leave.

I did the same things I had done yesterday, only quieter.

I looked at the chair. No purple saree. No crushed pallu. Her old nighty was folded on the shelf. The grey satin was on a hanger, inside out, as if she had washed the smell of last night with soap and left it to dry.

I looked near the bed. Sheet pulled. Not in the twenty-second way. Proper enough. No wrapper at the edge.

I opened the dustbin lid when she went to the bathroom. Tissues. A tea bag. Onion skin. No rubber. No tied mouths. I closed it.

I looked behind the bed because yesterday had taught my eyes to look there. Only dust and a button that had been missing from an old shirt for months.

No evidence today.

In the kitchen the other smell was waiting under the balm.

Garlic.

Strong, but subdued. Not fresh from the kadhai. Washed vessels. The steel plates were on the rack, dry. The sink was clean. No bone on the counter. She had cooked and she had cleaned.

I stood near the folding table.

She drank water and kept the glass down. And said abruptly “Morning tiffin that I sent will be enough for Azad Sahab and Ammi for night also,” she said. “I sent a good quantity. Roti also extra. Azad Sahab said it is enough. He liked the chicken very much.”

She said the last sentence the way she used to say a guest had praised the tea.

“He was asking about you also. How is office, is the boy eating, like that. I told him you left on time.”

I did not ask what else he had asked.

She adjusted the slipped pallu once. The sleeveless blouse cut her arms clean. When she lifted the glass I saw the soft inner of her upper arm and the dark of her underarm for a second. She put the glass down and pressed her back again.

“Beta, you eat when you feel hungry,” she said. “I will lie down a little. Head is also heavy. Day sleep yesterday, today also I kept lying after cooking.”

“All right Ma, take some rest.”

She went to the bed.

She did not lie on her side first.

She went down on her stomach.

The pallu she pulled off her back and let it fall along her arm, as if the cloth on her back was too much for the heat and for the balm. The cotton saree stayed tied at the waist. The blouse stayed. But the line of her back was open from the blouse edge down to the knot of the petticoat.

I stood near the chair and I saw what the small room put in front of me.

Her waist. Soft. Curved. Fairer along the spine where the sun does not sit. The balm had made the skin there a little shiny.

Both her arms were up, folded loosely above her head, toward the pillow. The sleeveless cut left her armpits open to the tube light. Dark. Smooth. She had shaved, or she had always kept them that way these last months. I had not let myself look like this before. Today the look arrived before the decision.

The saree and petticoat held the round shape of her seat. Full. Heavy. The cloth had wrinkled there too from the way she had slept earlier. One knee was slightly bent. The payal on her ankle made no sound because the foot was still. Soft feet. Toes without colour. Fingers above her head still holding that dull purple.

Bracelet. Chain. The gold in the side of her throat where her face was turned toward the wall.

I felt the heat come up the way it had come in the office bathroom yesterday and in the dawn dream before that. It came into the body first. Then the mind named it and the name was ugly.

This is your mother.

I knew my limit. I did not go closer. I did not touch the bed. I took my shirt off and went to the bathroom and washed my face again, longer than needed, until the water felt colder than the room.

When I came out she was still on her stomach. Her breathing had gone heavier. Almost a snore. Not loud. The kind of sound a tired body makes when it has stopped performing.

I changed into the house t-shirt and the grey pants. I heated the leftover sabzi from the morning and one roti she had left on the covered plate. I sat at the folding table and ate facing the bed because there is no other direction in this house.

Her phone was on the bed, near her right elbow, face down.

While I was eating the screen lit.

Not a message flash that dies at once. The longer glow of a call. The outer edge of the glass went white-blue for a few seconds. The phone vibrated once against the sheet, low.

I looked at it.

I did not pick it up.

The glow died.

I ate two more bites.

It lit again.

Same long glow. Same small vibration. A call that was not giving up after one try.

Curiosity is a simple thing. It does not ask whether you are a good son.

I stood. I wiped my fingers on the cloth. I picked the phone up.

Before the screen could show me a name, the battery sign took the whole glass.

Red. Almost empty.

Then the phone died in my hand.

Black.

I kept it face down where it had been. I did not wake her. I did not plug the charger. If I plugged it she would know a hand had moved it. If I woke her she would ask why I was holding her phone. I had already crossed one small line by lifting it. I stepped back from the next one.

I finished the food. I washed the plate. I sat on my side of the bed and did the small things I do at night — charger for my own phone, tomorrow’s socks, the alarm. She snored once, soft, and then the breath evened again.

I lay down.

After some time she moved.

The movement was not careful. It was the movement of a person whose back has gone stiff and then remembers it only when the body turns.

“Sss… ahh.”

A small sound. Pain, not drama. She turned from her stomach toward her side, then more, as if the stomach position had become too much.

Her eyes opened halfway.

“Sunny… you ate?”

“Yes.”

“Okay good” She swallowed. Her voice was thick with sleep. “I am not hungry yet. You sleep.”

Not hungry.

The chicken had been in this house. She may have eaten it. A person who has eaten meat in the afternoon can skip a night plate. A person who has had a different afternoon can also skip a night plate. The two thoughts sat together and did not choose.

She reached for the phone the way her hand has reached for it every night for months.

Dead.

She pressed the side button. Pressed it longer. Nothing.

“This phone is of no use,” she muttered. “Every second day this drama.”

She said it to the dark glass, not really to me.

The charger was on the folding table, two steps away. She did not get up. She did not ask me to plug it. She put the dead phone under the edge of the pillow and let her head go down again.

Within a minute her breathing changed. Sleep took her before the complaint about the battery. Later she shifted once more, onto her back.

The pallu was already down. In this position it became only a crumpled strip along her side. The room was hot. December or not, our 10-by-12 holds the day’s cooking and the day’s bodies and does not cool just because the calendar says winter. A thin line of sweat sat at her temple. Another small shine was in the hollow of her throat, on the gold chain.

She had slept in the same saree. She had not changed into a nighty. The cotton had loosened at the waist from all the turning. The blouse sat as it was, sleeveless, a little pulled with the movement.

Her navel was visible.

Clear. Deep. Rising and falling with every breath. The soft shelf of her stomach moved under the loosened cloth. Above that the blouse held her chest, but the neckline had shifted in sleep the way cloth shifts when no hand is watching it. The inner curve of both breasts, the dark line between them, came and went with the breath.

I lay on my side facing her because that is how the bed is. There is no other wall to face that does not also include her.

The heat came back.

It came into my stomach first. Then lower. I was hard under the grey house pants, the same shameless way the body had been hard at dawn and at the office desk. I put my hand there. Only to press down, I told myself. Only to make it stop showing.

It did not stop.

My hand stayed. My fingers closed. I made two slow movements, maybe three, looking at the navel going up and down, at the chain, at the open mouth of a woman who was asleep and who was still my mother.

Then the guilt arrived, not as a thought, as a hit.

This is the same bed.

This is the same woman who packed pickle in the morning and asked if my job was all right.

This is the same body the building has already named.

And I am lying one foot away, doing this.

It felt hurtful. Not dramatic. Just wrong in a way that sat in the throat.

I took my hand away. I turned onto my back. I looked at the ceiling fan. The blades moved through the hot air as if nothing in the room had changed since June.

Beside me she breathed. Deep. The small sound in her nose. The payal did not move.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep did not come at once.

Then it came the same way hers had come. Not as peace. Only as weight.

The small room held both of us.

And Tuesday, finally, stopped there.

[Authorsunny]

Guys, drafting wednesday's chapter currently. And it's going to be a very long long day :-). A lot of fun. Anybody wants to guess what's gonna happen tomorrow?