The apartment was a railroad flat in Greenpoint, the kind with a kitchen that was really just a hallway with a stove and a sink that faced a brick wall. I’d lived there for two years with Maya — kindergarten teacher, heavy sleeper, completely trusting. Her girlfriend had been staying over for a month — “just until her place is ready,” Maya had said.
Sloane was that girlfriend. Twenty-nine. A carpenter with calloused hands and a habit of finding me at the sink at 1 AM, when Maya had been asleep for hours and the only sound was the neighbor’s TV through the wall.
Tonight was a Tuesday. We’d had dinner — the three of us, pasta, too much wine — and Maya had gone up at 11 PM. I’d stayed to wash the glasses. At 12:30 AM, Sloane had walked in. She hadn’t said a word. She’d just stepped behind me and put her hands in the soapy water with mine.
“The water is still running,” I whispered, looking back at her over my shoulder. My grey tank top was thin, soaked at the edges from the spray. Sloane was pressed against my back, her hands covering mine in the warm suds, her face inches from my neck. “Your girlfriend — my roommate — is asleep upstairs. The dishwasher is broken. The sink is full. And your hands are in the sink with mine. On my wrists. Sliding up my arms. You’re supposed to be drying. Not touching me. Not pressing against me. Not—”
Sloane didn’t speak. She just leaned in from behind, her cheek pressing against my wet hair, her soapy hands sliding from my wrists to my forearms, then to my elbows, then under the straps of my tank top, finding my shoulders with a grip that was completely devastating.
“If she comes down for a glass of water,” I breathed, my voice trembling as the water continued to run — hot, then warm, then starting to turn cold — “she’ll find us at the sink. She’ll see your sports bra against my back and your mouth on my neck and the water overflowing onto the floor and the wine glasses forgotten and she’ll know that the dishes weren’t the only thing getting washed tonight. She’ll know that while she slept upstairs, her girlfriend was downstairs drowning me—”
She turned my face toward her with a soapy hand on my jaw. Her mouth found mine. A kiss that tasted like dish soap and betrayal and the exact moment when a chore becomes something that can’t be rinsed away no matter how long you stand under the water. Her tongue slid against mine, her hand sliding down my stomach, into my sweatpants, finding me wet and ready and completely soaked through.
The stairs creaked.
A footstep from above. A floorboard groaning. Maya’s voice — sleepy, confused, completely unaware.
“Sloane? Are you down there? I heard water.”
Sloane didn’t pull away. She just pressed her other hand against the faucet — holding it, keeping the water running, her fingers still moving inside me.
“Just helping with the dishes, babe!” Sloane called out, her voice perfectly steady, completely at odds with the fingers that were currently curling inside me. “Go back to sleep!”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The footsteps retreated. Sloane looked at me. The water was running cold now, but her hand was burning.
“Let her see,” she whispered against my mouth, her thumb circling my clit, her fingers pressing deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the running water. “Let her watch the water run. Let her stand in that doorway and see exactly what her girlfriend does to you at 1 AM. I’m not stopping until you’re clean of everyone but me. Until you forget her name. Until the only thing you’re soaked in is me.”
She made me come against the kitchen sink. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my breast, the water running cold over our hands, the wine glasses rattling in the basin. I came with her soapy hand over my mouth, my cry swallowed by the running water, my body shaking so hard the faucet handle squeaked.
After, she turned off the water. She dried my hands — slowly, between each finger. She kissed my forehead.
“I’ll fix the dishwasher tomorrow,” she said.
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
Maya moved out a month later. She said Sloane was “distant.” She had no idea that the distance was just Sloane saving her energy for the kitchen sink. We’re together now. And every night at 1 AM, we stand at the sink with the water running and remember the first time.
The dishwasher is still broken. We never fixed it. Some things are better done by hand.
