by aeonian

And now.

At night, after the children are in bed, and on weekends, when the boys are in the yard, that is when Lynette sneaks across the street, and in Bree's bedroom she is quiet as she can with a hand between her thighs, and before she comes she kicks back blankets so Bree will have to make the bed. And when her fingers are wet she wipes them on the sheets, and when there is lipstick on the pillow she does not smudge it away.

These things to hold her place, now, things to witness what she is missing.

She gets a bracelet on her bedside table in return, someone else's mascara on her sheets, pink messages on her desk every afternoon.

Lonely, Bree says, it gets so lonely, and Lynette realizes, yeah, Bree used to kill time with her. Bree used to pour chocolate into tins, and pretend she didn't see Lynette lick the spoon. Now, Lynette holds Bree hard enough to leave a mark, kicks off her shoes and makes a scuff on the wall, smiles when she leaves and the bed remains unmade. She is not quite gone, not quite.

She is missing so many things.

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