Elha Morrison and I first met at a work-related getaway. The company left us at a seaside resort, gave us plenty of food and drinks, and watched us go. The final evening was a hedonistic affair, but I wasn't feeling it. It felt like a scam, as if the bosses had done us a favor for a tax-break or something.
From a far-off corner I studied them, my co-workers, until I saw an unfamiliar face. She occupied a small, dark, mysterious space between conservative men in business suits and their wives in dresses far too young for them. Several from the latter category had flirted shamelessly with me. Shamefully, I had almost accepted the advances of my older boss. She was a power-femme with bright red lipstick, handsome enough to look twice, but I remembered our history and wondered why I should spend my free time on someone who'd steadily decreased mine over the years.
Elha was different, a strange face after all this time, and a beautiful one at that, a face without heavy wrinkles or bitterness, straight-nosed with dark eyes. Her sparkly green dress clung to her like syrup, her thick, dark brown hair collected in a sloppy bun, a curl or two whispering at the nape of her neck. I'd realized a long time ago that at 35-ish something a woman was the most fantastic thing if done right. I finished my drink quickly, realized I couldn't, and left it on a wobbly table before dancing my way through the crowd, nodding to some and bumping against others. My boss swung her big, blonde hair and groped at my crotch, a clear case of sexual harassment. But she must have noticed by my distractedness and hardon that she wasn't important right now. A whispered threat failed to get my attention. I told her I was sorry and kept going.
I thought I had lost her. She wasn't on the dancefloor anymore, nor queuing at the well-stocked bar. Finally, taking a long shot, I rushed into the lobby to the elevators.
In the harsh light she looked just as beautiful, but more real, sweat covering her arms and face. She yawned, and tried to hide it when she noticed me. I edged up to her.
"Hello."
"Sorry, didn't see you there."
"That's okay. Are you with us, I mean, at the company retreat?"
"Yeah ..."
"Or something?"
"It's complicated."
"I would really like to dance."
"Noone's stopping you."
"With you, I mean."
"Listen ... This is a bad time."
"Sure! I get it."
I turned to leave. The elevator doors opened just in time to save me from embarrassment. Still, I must have looked incredibly stupid. She pressed the hold-button.
"What's your name?"
"Morgan Lee."
"Morgan ..."
With a thoughtful glance she let the doors close.
Without a name, I couldn't track her down, or that's what I told myself. In truth, I never tried. With my history of dating my hopes were low of ever meeting anyone, especially as a consequence of some problematic, romantic gesture. Leave that woman alone, my brain told me, and so I did. I dreamt about her though.
My boss must have sensed a change in me, because instead of finalizing her threat she showered me with praise, and because I was different and more soul-tired after the incident I accepted her invitation the next time around. Mostly, we fooled around in her office after business hours. She liked to feel me inside of her with the skylight in front of her, or having me sit in her chair while she crawled under the desk, giving me blowjobs that felt amazing but seemed unimportant. The less I cared, the more she tried, until our relationship was something like a dominant-submissive kind of thing. The younger me would've loved it. It ticked so many of the kink boxes. Blonde, boss, older, love-hate, lipstick, stockings, high-heels, worship, deepthroat. Mostly, I just performed, sad to say. I was rather there than at my own apartment. If I kept going, eventually I would be able to fool myself into believing I led an amazing life.
I barely recognized Elha when I saw her again, late one evening. I'd finished up with my boss, inside of her, and I was tired. And of course, Elha was dressed differently, nice but casual. Coming down in different elevators, we stepped out simultaneously.
"Morgan," she said.
"You remembered."
"Of course, but ..." She scanned the lobby. "... this isn't the best place."
"Another time maybe ..."
"We should go somewhere else. Coffee?"
"Now?"
"It's late, but are you doing anything else?"
"No."
"Fine."
Following her closely, I tried to come to grips with my weird luck. To see her again felt like a band-aid, with iodine. My cock was way too sensitive to look at her ass in mom-jeans, the way her hair flowed freely giving tantalizing glimpses of a long and beautiful neck, and her wondering half-smile every time she turned around. She was a fast walker.
She stopped outside the portrait of the night-time diner. Inside, we ordered some coffee to wipe the sleep from our eyes.
"I just want to know everything about you," I said.
She smiled and shook her head. But she told me.
Her soon to be ex-husband worked at the same company as me. Tonight, she'd been over with their five-year-old daughter, Alice.
"But I don't trust him."
She hid her face in her hands.
"I always thought that divorcees had it easier, but it's just more of the same. He still leaves it entirely up to me. I even buy groceries for him."
"Jesus."
"You didn't have kids. You're lucky."
