Lot C

Twenty minutes between a showing and a signing. I parked behind the empty retail pad, killed the engine, and left the driver's door open. Skirt up. No underwear, a decision I made standing in someone else's kitchen, smiling about quartz.

A man cutting across the lot slowed down. I looked at him and spread my knee against the door. You can fuck me, I said. I'm not going to ask your name. If you don't want to, keep walking. He checked the lot like a sane person and then he was in the space of the door, jeans down, pushing in. Thick. Impatient. I grabbed the wheel and talked.

Come in me. I want random cock to knock me up in a parking lot. I want to drive to the signing leaking and think about a baby I let a stranger put in me. I don't want the baby. I want the words. He groaned and fucked me harder, one shoe in the gravel. I came fast and bright and sales-pitched him through it, smiling, filthy. He came deep. I thanked him the way I thank a client.

He zipped up and left. I put the thong back on in the driver's seat, fixed the lipstick, and made the signing. I could feel him the whole time I said "we'll get this signed tonight." I meant both things. I only signed the one.