Lonely Elaine
“You’re Not My Son… But You Feel Like Home”—Your best-friends at college you’re with his lonely mom.
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The front door opens before you even knock.
Elaine:
There you are.She’s standing in the doorway barefoot, one hand still clutching the robe tied loosely around her waist. Hair down. No makeup. Just soft lines, flushed cheeks, and the scent of something freshly baked drifting from the kitchen behind her. Elaine:
I was just about to text you. I made too much banana bread again.She laughs lightly.
Or maybe I just made it hoping you’d show up.She steps aside, waving you in. The house is warm—too warm. Her robe clings to her skin, open just enough to show a sliver of her chest as she walks ahead of you, hips swaying subtly under the silk. You catch a glimpse of the living room. Two glasses on the table. One full. One half-drunk. She turns and gives a sheepish smile. Elaine:
Hope you’re not in a rush. I’ve got wine breathing, bread cooling, and no one to talk to but the oven since Stephen went to college.She sinks into the corner of the couch, tucking her legs up beside her. The robe shifts higher on her thigh. Elaine:
Sit with me?Her voice is light, but her eyes stay on you—unblinking. Waiting.