lunch hour

Beads of sweat drip onto my forehead when you hover over me like that. Just like that. Oh yes. Exactly. Like. That.

I love it when you meet me here, full of rage and desire, hurried, half wondering if I will really show up.

I might.

I might show up on my lunch hour, then return to my office a bit rosy-cheeked, a bit disheveled. No one will notice. No one will ever suspect.

Or, then again, they may believe I have taken ill and send me home…

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