Your wife had left for the week. The note on the fridge said the kitchen was yours. The apron she usually wore was on the hook by the stove. You tied it on as a joke.
The strings did themselves up behind your back. The bow at the small of your back tightened. Your shorts went looser around your hips and then were not there at all. Heat rose from the front of the apron and your chest rose with it. By the time you set a pan on the burner, the apron was not loose anywhere and your hair was past your shoulder in a ponytail you had not tied.
You looked down and saw a cleavage you had not been born with. You touched your throat and found a thin chain. You ran your fingers down the front of the apron. Under the frill, you felt hips, and then between those hips, your hands found a new heat. The kettle started to whistle.
Your hand stayed where it had landed. Your other hand braced on the warm edge of the stove. You came against your own hand. The stove edge was hot under your palm. The kettle whistled and whistled and the memory of turning it off was already not there.
You took the kettle off the burner the way your hand had always known. The pan on the front burner had a pat of butter just starting to melt. You stirred it without looking. A strip of morning light fell across the counter and the blue bow at your back was the same blue as the cup on the shelf. The fridge note was still where you had left it. You did not need to read it again.
***
The doorbell rang. You did not turn the stove off. You walked the length of the hall to the front door with the apron on and your hair over one shoulder. You opened the door without thinking. A man was on the step with a paper bag of groceries in his arms. He looked at the apron. He looked at the rest of you. He did not ask. He walked past you down the hall and set the bag on the counter by the stove.
He set the bag down and turned to you at the stove. The house was empty around the two of you. He stepped up behind you. He put a hand at the bow at the small of your back and untied it. The apron fell forward off your shoulders. He pushed your hips forward against the counter. He undid his belt.
He bent his knees. Then he was sliding inside you. He held your hips in his hands. You braced yourself on the counter. He fucked you over the stove. Your nipples brushed the counter. His shirt brushed your bare back. The kettle on the trivet ticked as it cooled.
He had a hand at your hip and a hand at your shoulder. The kettle ticked behind your wrist. Then the thought arrived in your head fully formed, and it wasn't yours, and then it was. You had always lived here. You had always greeted the delivery man like this. The old self watched from somewhere small, and then from nowhere.
He came on the small of your back where the bow had been. You stayed bent until he stepped away. Then you straightened up. He picked the apron up off the floor and put it back on you with the bow at the front, the way you had not tied it the first time. He let himself out down the hall. You heard the front door close. The fridge note was still where you had left it. The pan had the butter ready and the morning light was still on the counter. You did not need to read the note again.