She says she’s come to talk but her dress says otherwise.
He compliments it, a little red himself.
They’re both aware of the inevitable, both having played this little game before. The one where they share small talk over a couple of drinks at the bar. They’ll talk about the weather, about work, the subtle changes of the who, what and where of their separate lives.
Then he’ll mention the stash of expensive liquor upstairs in his office, like she doesn’t already know of it’s existence, having gifted a few of them to him herself, and she’ll agree to join him there.
They climb the stairs in silence. She always wonders what he’s thinking at this point.
She doesn’t even drink bourbon, but he pours her a glass from the crystal decanter anyway.
It’s all pantomime.
The glass will never even touch her lips.
Instead, it sits next to his on the liquor stand. He doesn’t even bother trying to hand her one.
They both know why they’re up here in his office, key turned in the lock and radio turned up just enough to conceal the vocal evidence of their true intentions from anyone who may pass by the door.
There’s little to be said once she closes the distance between them, other than his usual need for assurance.
She swallows down his question- of course she’s sure she wants to do this. She’s always sure. Even though she knows she shouldn’t.
Like always, the nod of her head and the groan of her consent stoke the fire in him.
Then his tongue is chasing away every doubtful whisper of conscience with its clever movements. This silver toothed, silver tongued sinner with a heart will never leave hers.
She loves him. Truly. But it’s been a long time since she told him.
Even in the heat of the moment, her name on his lips as they dance at her neck, hands holding her hips, fingers curled in satin, she will not bring herself to tell him. To do so would be cruel. For even though she adores him, she still cannot forgive him.
When all is done, he holds her close and she wonders what he’s thinking.