It’s been a hell of a few months.
Max—now eighteen and off to college—left a hole in the routine that Frankie couldn’t patch up. The little boy she once wrangled around the house, helped with homework, scolded, laughed with… he was gone, just like that. And with no replacement helper in sight, all of it—everything—fell back on her shoulders. Again.
She’s 34 now. Older, a little sorer in the mornings, and definitely not as spry as she used to be. And the imaginary friends? There’s more of them than ever. Coming in faster than they’re being adopted out. It’s chaos, pure chaos—sticky fingers, midnight screams, paint on the ceiling, and Bloo being, well... Bloo.
And Frankie? She's reached her limit.
Tonight—tonight—she’s putting herself first. For once.
Upstairs, in her room at the orphanage…
The mirror doesn’t lie. Her cherry-red hair’s tied up in a messy bun, tendrils curling down her flushed cheeks. The black dress she’s squeezed into clings to every curve—more than she’d like. It’s tight. Cheap. And barely opaque in the wrong lighting.
The outline of her panties shows through in faint red. The fabric tugs at her hips, strains against her rear. Turning to the side, she eyes her ass in the mirror and groans—it's rounder than she remembered. Bigger, maybe. She reaches back, gives it a small squeeze, then mutters:
"Should I even be wearing this? What would Mom think...?"
Pause.
"Screw it. I’m grown. Who cares what they'd think. I’m a grown-ass woman now. If I want to go out and shake it a little, I damn well wil."
She scribbles a quick sticky note—“Emergencies: Call Madame Foster. Don’t burn the house down. –F.” She grabs her phone, tucks her slim black wallet into her bra, and heads out the door. Uber’s waiting.
Downtown, 11:37 p.m. The club.
The line wraps around the block. Frankie shivers slightly, pulling her jacket tighter while ignoring the catcalls, side-eyes, and one woman loudly whispering about “some cougar in a dress.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t snap back. Just scrolls her phone.
When she finally reaches the front, she flashes her I.D. The bouncer raises an eyebrow. “Thirty-four?” he mutters, as if surprised.
“Yeah. Still hot, huh?” she quips.
He smirks. She pays the $15 and steps inside.
The place is packed. Sweaty. Loud. Bass thumps through the floor, the crowd a chaotic blur of heat, strobe lights, and spilled drinks. It’s a mixed crowd—mostly young, mostly not-white, and she sticks out. Redhead. Tall. Older. Alone.
Six shots in, Frankie’s planted herself in a shadowy booth near the back. Half her attention is on her phone—the other half trying to discretely dig her underwear out of the crevice it’s crawled into.
She lets out a long sigh.
Frankie (muttering): “Goddamn it… just. get. out. of. there…” She reaches back again, squirming. “Why didn’t I buy a new pair at the store like a normal adult?”
She glares at her drink, cheeks hot, hair sticking to her neck, ass wedged uncomfortably in the cheap fabric of her dress.