Today my son fixed the leaky faucet for me. As he knelt under the sink, busy with the repair, I watched him from behind, so focused—and suddenly I was reminded of his father when he was young. The strength of his arms wrapping around my waist from behind, the urgency of pressing me against the edge of the counter… I quickly turned away to wipe the stovetop, afraid he’d see my flushed face. But as I wiped, my hands started to tremble, because I remembered his father’s last time in the kitchen too—pinning me against the refrigerator door, his hard cock pressing against my ass, saying, ‘I want to fuck you in the kitchen today.’ Now this spot is just me, my fingers absently tracing the cold stainless steel, while down below I’m a complete mess. Damn it, even the faucet knows to keep flowing, while I’m left here with my desires growing mold in an empty house.