The wet grass seeped through her jeans. The damp made her skin feel clammy, and she wiped the mud from the palm of her hand onto the bottom of the navy blue shirt, complete with yellow and red paint spatters. The silence was almost deafening. It crushed around her ears.
"What are we doing?" She asked, not expecting any coherent or sensible answer. Maybe because there wasn't one, maybe because neither of them wanted to think about what it meant. It was starting to get dangerous, people were staring, their glares searing into her soul. Tom's trips away from home became more frequent, and so did her own late night visits to her neighbour's house in the cover of darkness and friendship.
Her companion coughed lightly, more of an interruption to the suffocating stillness rather than out of necessity. She rose from the lawn, brushing down the blades of grass that stuck to her skirt and to the back of her calfs, "I don't know Lynette," Her prim voice replied, her eyes glancing everywhere but at her friend. Or her lover. The words seemed so incomplete now. This wasn't her. She wasn't this. "But I have a home to get back to."
She strode towards the gate, her heels slightly sinking into the soft lawn, and she hid her frustration at her ruined footwear. Lynette jumped up from her position on the grass, grabbing her friend's wrist. "Wait," Bree finally met her eyes, "Please. Talk to me."
*
The wet grass seeped through the knees of her jeans. The skin underneath her calloused fingers was soft and creamy, and felt nothing like her own. She drew indistinguishable patterns on the ivory skin, drawing a heart before softly wiping it away.
"Are you alright?" She looked up to Bree, slumped on the wooden and uncomfortable bench, but her quivery sigh in reply was enough of an answer. Lynette ran her hands up her neighbour's thighs, her breathing increased, her eyes fluttered closed and her lips reddened.
And under Lynette's control, Bree let herself fall to pieces.
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