She wasn’t supposed to be there. In fact, Luna often found herself in places she wasn’t supposed to be. Yet it seemed to be her proverbial modus operandi. It wasn’t necessarily that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time—just always where she wasn’t supposed to be, full-stop. The latest instance of that came in such a way that she should have expected it. For, unlike past occasions when she wasn’t aware that she shouldn’t be in a certain place (like that time she got caught in the crossfire of a police shootout), Luna was fully cognizant of the risks involved in going to this particular place: her boyfriend’s ex-wife’s apartment. 

Granted, Astrid (a name as frigid as the woman it was attached to) wasn’t going to be there. But that’s perhaps what made it all the more taboo that Luna should be instead. Of course, Émile had insisted Astrid was well-informed she would be staying in the apartment while he cared for her aged, ailing cat in her absence. The cat, whose name was (too fittingly) Lucifer, still held a sentimental value in terms of their now-defunct relationship. It was basically the closest thing they had to a child, and once it was dead there would truly be nothing binding them together any longer (though Luna doubted that Astrid wouldn’t still find an excuse to be bound…or rather, bind Émile). 

Because Émile was so versed in the bizarre ins and outs of caring for Lucifer—his various medicines, tics and general grievances—Astrid always called upon her ex-husband for help in this matter. Something that vexed Luna to no end, but that she chose to keep to herself for fear of being branded as “unchill.” For all any woman aspired to be in the eyes of the man she was in love with was “chill.” Otherwise, she was liable to “lose” that man (as though men could ever really be possessed in the first place). Some would say, of course, that if a man really loved a woman, he would accept the most authentic version of herself, including the “unchill” one, but that’s simply not the case and never has been. Luna knew what she had to do to keep Émile from running for the hills, and acting “fine” about his ex-wife’s constant involvement in his life was one of them. 

But at least he had invited her to stay with him for the five nights he would be shacking up at Astrid’s in order to care for their accursed cat. Émile still had a soft spot for Lucifer, even though there had clearly been a reason why he was so quick to surrender “full custody” of him to Astrid. And not just because Astrid was so clearly destined for cat lady status. No, it was because Lucifer was an asshole, pure and simple. An annoying, needy asshole. Where most cats would just leave you the hell alone, Lucifer had to be underfoot or in your lap at all times like a goddamn Pomeranian or something. Luna didn’t know the full extent of that until she had already showed up to Astrid’s litter box-smelling apartment in Crown Heights. She thought it might have been a slight “vacation” to get away from Flatbush, and the roommates she shared a much more sun-filled apartment with than this one, but she was sorely mistaken. Her roommates’ general uncleanliness was nothing compared to the hell of sharing a space with Lucifer. 

To make matters worse, the moment Luna arrived, Émile was acting strangely. Hovering over her and telling her not to move this or that so as not to upset Astrid. It was odd… Luna finally asked outright why he was so concerned with keeping everything exactly in place and that was when Émile confessed that he hadn’t exactly mentioned to Astrid that Luna would be staying there with him as well. Luna’s stomach dropped as she processed this information. And here she had brought all this extra shit for her stay—toiletries, clothes, food—any number of things she could accidentally end up leaving behind and that would serve as cold, hard evidence of her presence there. Because, once again, she had proven that she was often in places she wasn’t supposed to be. It was like some sort of fatal flaw she couldn’t shake. 

After downing a glass of red wine—one of the many items she had brought along with her to ensure a comfortable stay—Luna felt slightly calmer, though not by much. It was sufficient enough, however, to maintain the aura of “coolness” she needed to berate Émile for his faux pas in such a way that he wouldn’t be intimidated, but that would allow him to comprehend what an uncomfortable position he had just put her in. As she poured another glass to settle her nerves, the cat kept rubbing up against her legs like the annoying asshole she knew it to be. Though that was child’s play compared to Lucifer’s nighttime antics, which consisted of the little twat trying to sit on Luna’s face every time she was just about to fall asleep. Like a sick game. Well, Luna knew how to play sick games too, didn’t she? And proceeded to do just that when she locked Lucifer in the bathroom whenever Émile wasn’t paying attention. Then, when he would pick up on it, Luna would shrug and say, “Oops. I forgot he was in there.”

The friction between her and Émile would mount in this way as the week progressed, almost as if Astrid had planned it by design, setting up her apartment as a tension trap for the two of them to fall into. But if that were the case, then it was only Luna’s fault for daring to show up there in the first place, knowing full well you don’t enter the space of your current boyfriend’s ex. It’s just “common decency.” Although, to be fair, Émile was technically the indecent one for assuring Luna it was perfectly acceptable for her to be there, that Astrid was given the heads up about it. 

Amid their arguments about who was at fault for Luna needing to walk on eggshells while temporarily inhabiting the dark, cat shit-smelling abode, they managed to break through their mutual agitation with one another to instead agitate each other’s genitals. Of course, the thought had crossed Luna’s mind that they might end up fucking in his ex’s apartment, but she wasn’t sure she would actually be able to go through with it. Lo and behold, though, she seemed to have no trouble at all, running to the kitchen to fetch the peanut butter she had brought along for her breakfast accommodations (among other reasons, apparently) so as to smear it between her legs and let Émile have at it—all while Lucifer was locked in the bathroom, naturally. Because fuck that pussy, Émile’s attention was only on the one he was currently licking. 

If Luna was being honest with herself, it was one of the best sex sessions they had ever had. And maybe, perversely enough, it could all be chalked up to how illicit it felt. So good in its illicitness that they kept up their acrobatics for the next couple days of staying there and, by the end, Luna was almost sad to leave, believing that the apartment was, in fact, some positive influence on their sex life. 

Gathering up all of her things and repositioning any item she thought might have been moved or bumped up against during the fuckfest, Luna almost left the jar of peanut butter behind, which would have been a huge tell of some “foreign presence,” as Astrid loathed peanut butter, and didn’t know Émile to be too keen on it either (though she also didn’t know that depended on what it was spread over). Alas, she was about to loathe it even more when she came home to find that it was encrusted in various unexpected places on her bedsheets, which both Luna and Émile had forgotten to tend to in their fixation on ensuring that everything else in the apartment was “just so.” 

Lucifer, meanwhile, merely stared at Astrid stripping her bed of its iniquity with a self-satisfied smirk, licking his crotch with the same animalistic fervor as, only hours before, Émile had licked Luna’s in that very room.