After eight

Lights out at eight and the key turns twice. I lean back on the counter, jacket slipping off my shoulders, black hair loose down my back. The blonde girl who served cappuccinos all day is gone. In her place, a woman who lets her mind drift across the empty tables, settling on the man who sat three stools down at lunch. Tall. Quiet. The kind of mouth that made every sip look like a secret. I slide onto the prep table, spread my knees, and let the skirt ride up. Lace still warm against me. I press my palm between my legs once, twice, testing how wet the memory already makes me. Fingers slip inside the thin fabric, trace slow circles, then push deeper. Eyes half-closed, I ride my own hand while the streetlights throw stripes across the floor. Each stroke pulls the image clearer: his wrists, his belt, the way he might sound if he walked back in right now and found me like this. Breaths shorten. My thighs tighten. The orgasm creeps up quiet, then hits sharp, and I ride it out on my own fingers until the shakes ease and the café is just a café again.