Tara had never been fond of cooking. Actually she loathed it but hesitated to confess.
Fortunately this didn’t disturb Greg, who quite enjoyed messing around in the kitchen, tasting soups and stirring sauces, braising and baking.
But it was only decent that she prepare the occasional meal.
Late one afternoon Tara found herself in the kitchen of necessity. Greg was working very hard these days and was usually late. Uninspired, she slopped olive oil into the frying pan.
It spilled into the shape of a human hand. Diaphanous fingers curled, flexed, reached toward her, glistening in the stovelight.
Startled, she slapped a hamburger patty into the frying pan.
The hand tossed it back.
Fleeing to the front door, she gulped in lungfuls of January air. She’d eat out.
The meat couldn’t stay on the countertop, though. Teeth chattering, she went back.
The hand beckoned from the frying pan.
“You’re losing it, woman,” she muttered. “You’re really, truly, losing it.”
Because it was inevitable, she offered her own hand.
And was clasped in a satin-cool touch. Ethereal fingers glided, slowly warming as they intertwined with hers. Stroking with a delicate fervor, they caressed the back of her hand.
Her fear slid away. A minute passed. Two. Five. Sudden heat tingled in her groin.
She jerked free. Dumped the oil down the drain.
Translucent fingers flickered in the sink.
Laughing hysterically, she drove to A&W. Fries nibbled one by one. Two extra cups of coffee. It was dark when she got home.
Lingering in her frigid car, she considered knocking on a neighbor’s door. She could say she’d lost her keys. Or seen a prowler. A dark stranger.
The front door opened. A shimmering hand beckoned in the porchlight.
Knowing it was fate, she obeyed.
On the couch, her lips parted, her breath quivered, as warm strokes moistened her neck, then glided ever lower to cup her breasts. Her nipples hardened in aching eagerness.
In the bedroom she shed her blouse and bra, and gasped as sensuous fingers slithered beneath the waistband of her panties. Arching on the bed, she shoved away that final barrier.
Licking fingers circled, tantalizing her clit, then flooded her inner recesses. Ohmigod, this is way better than Greg! she thought as she succumbed. Blazing heat shot her to a soaring climax, then yet another screaming release.
Afterwards, she languorously prepared a very late dinner for Greg and herself. She even sang as she opened the Cabernet they’d been saving. She’d serve shrimp cocktail and a crisp salad, followed by steak grilled to perfection with sautéed mushrooms. For dessert, she’d bring out crème brulee …
Lurking among the branches of the potted Norfolk pine, a translucent hand throbbed with bright rainbow filaments, each shot through with light.
Then it seemed to sigh.
Soon, after a rest, it would writhe and convulsively stretch, straining against itself until a perfect living replica glistened by its side.
Ainslie Lloyd normally writes under another name. She has published 26 books, as well as many short stories, poems and articles on the craft of writing. Ainslie lives in the Canadian prairies.
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