Free Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail by T.J. Forrester

beautiful. Leona glances at her blouse, checks all the buttons to make sure they are secure. Emanuel nudges her.
    â€œHoney,” he says. “They are asking if you have sexual preferences.”
    â€œI like to take it up the ass while my old man watches,” Leona says.
    Mrs. Tannenbaum says, “My stars.”
    Emanuel asks Leona to follow him to the kitchen. She does.
    â€œAre you going crazy?” he says. “Are you off your rocker?”
    Leona cuts coffee cake into four squares, licks crumbs off her fingers. “I’ve been reading your magazines.”
    â€œWe are cultured people, we don’t talk that way.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I’m not myself today.”
    â€œOkay, then.”
    She wonders where Parker is at the moment, has the vaguesuspicion she is forgetting something. Oh, the coffee cake. She slides the squares onto plates and asks Emanuel to carry two on his way out.
    The afternoon temperature is comfortable, and Leona sits quietly in her chair. Conversation turns to retirement, and Mrs. Tannenbaum talks about how she volunteers in a soup kitchen in downtown Buffalo. Her husband competes in senior triathlons, had set a New York State record in the mile swim in his last event. Emanuel drops his fork, picks it up, wipes it on his napkin.
    â€œI must ask for the recipe for this cake,” Mrs. Tannenbaum says. “It’s very moist and sweet.”
    Leona dips her finger in her tea and swirls the ice cubes.
    â€œMoist as a juicy pussy,” she says.
    Feeling Emanuel’s glare between her shoulder blades, she excuses herself and carries the plates to the kitchen. Mrs. Tannenbaum walks in, wets a dishrag, and dabs a spot on her dress, says it had been a long drive and they stopped for hamburgers and she spilled ketchup on her lapel.
    â€œYou needn’t worry,” Mrs. Tannenbaum says. “All we do is go to separate rooms and talk. It’s good for their egos.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œNothing ever happens. We don’t actually do anything.”
    Leona follows her guest to the yard. Nothing ever happens? She snorts her disbelief, then whispers in Emanuel’s ear.
    â€œI’m giving in,” she says. “You want this, you’ve got it.”
    Emanuel clambers to his feet and suggests they retire inside. The four of them, sore from sitting, limp into the house and down the hall. Mrs. Tannenbaum and Emanuel enter his bedroom, and Mr. Tannenbaum and Leona enter hers. She sits on the bed, up near the pillow, and Mr. Tannenbaum sits next to her. He crossesand uncrosses his legs, does it again. Poor thing, he is nervous as a teenager. He smells like sweat and Aqua Velva aftershave, a musky scent that stirs her in a way she has not felt in a long time. Leona unbuttons her blouse and shrugs it over one shoulder, a pose she has seen in the movies. She feels displaced, as though the top of her head has unscrewed and the real her wriggled out and floated against the ceiling. She watches her hands shrug the blouse to her waist, watches Mr. Tannenbaum unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, part the opening in his boxers.
    â€œWe need to hurry,” he says.
    The shock of seeing him on display is like falling into an icy puddle, and she gradually returns to her body, aware of a constant knock from out in the hall. The knock grows louder, and Mrs. Tannenbaum whispers for her husband. He zips up, goes to the door, and Leona glimpses his wife peeking around his shoulder.
    â€œShe has her blouse off,” Mrs. Tannenbaum hisses. She draws her husband into the hall, and Leona doesn’t need to watch them leave to know they are on their way back to New York.
    She stretches out on the bed, belly rising and falling, wonders how far Emanuel had gone with his date in the other room. She lifts her dress, and her fingers creep beneath her panties. Her husband has always been so careful with her, so