The tryst with Candi that morning really charged me up and I used that momentum to go for a long run. My legs and back reminded me of my sedentary ways with every stride but I did not care. The memory of Candi's lips throttling me just minutes earlier propelled me forward but presented other challenges. Jogging in your late forties is hard enough, I didn't need to present my upper class neighbors and their children with sight of the swollen monster between my legs rearing its head as I shambled down the block.
When I returned home half an hour later, Candi had already left for work. She left only a small white notecard with a red lipstick kiss waiting for me by the coffee machine.
One of the perks of being COO of a successful company should be the feeling of control and power that you walk in the office with each morning but the daily grind had dulled my once youthful prowess. Meetings felt endless thanks to the asinine comments everyone needed to throw-in, board members constantly wanted answers about why our cost of labor went up a fraction of a percent, and mid-managers were constantly fighting for attention and affirmation.
This day felt different, though. When I pushed open the glass door to the office that day, my head was up and it felt like anything was possible. I greeted Tia, the part-time postgraduate student who watched our front desk, with a hearty good morning and actually felt like we connected while she explained some obscure detail about some avant garde art gallery she was trying to worm her way into.
Arriving at the executive corner of the office usually came with a handful of memos and contracts to review from Dot, our executive assistant. Without hesitation, I always pushed them right back to her, asking for little post-it notes to be added to mark the parts "I actually need to read."
This day was different, though. Dot hesitantly presented the usual stack of paperwork to me and I proudly declared:
"Thank you, Dot. I'll take it from here."
Her jaw dropped and her reading glasses slid downward to the end of her nose. Without the glasses covering her eyes, I was reminded of a time before she needed reading glasses, a time when her face was a little slimmer and crows feet weren't forming around those big blue eyes. I remembered the younger woman that the executive team hired once upon a time, and couldn't help but comment that "If I weren't married..." every time she left the room in a tight fitting skirt.
We did this to her, I thought, caused her to age before her time. There wasn't much I could do about the stress I caused her through the last decade but my newfound virility made me at least want to bring back that ever-optimistic smile.
I swung back into her office, pulled out my wallet and dropped a credit card on her desk in front of her still-stoned face.
"Lunch is on me today. Just wanted to say a small thanks. Whatever you want... actually meet some friends, take extra time."
My heart lifted when I saw her expression soften and that bright smile bubbled up.
"Wow, thanks, Jackson. That's... really nice of you," she stammered back.
"Nice." I couldn't remember a coworker calling me "nice" in a long time.
The book-like stack of documents accompanying me to my office was heavy and scratched the inside of my hand when I dropped it on my desk with a thud. It was full of vendor contracts and health insurance nonsense but I dove in, diligently marking up every page. This was why Dominic, the CEO and former wunderkind, recruited me in the first place. I was a hammer looking for a nail in my younger years and it felt good to rekindle my bureaucratic prowess.
***
"Coffee?" Came a sweet voice from the doorway.
I had almost forgotten what Dot sounded like when she was trying to please me. Years of handing down marching orders and childish requests had taken its toll on our working relationship. Now, she was standing in the doorway, holding my mug at a right angle away from her body, with the other hand resting high up on the frame. The picture in front of me was like a still frame from a classic movie.
Once upon a time, I was a little more than enamored with Dot. The comments Dom and I made every time she left the room had turned into real attraction in my mind. Strangely, it wasn't her pretty face or petite frame that caught my attention. When she got pregnant with her first child, something triggered inside me. I couldn't tell if it was pheromones or just my own memories of when Candi and I tried to keep our relationship hot and romantic during her pregnancy, but there was something about that little belly that Dot developed that called to me. I wanted her. I wanted to see her sitting naked in front of me with those swollen breasts pressing out from her chest. I wanted to be inside her fertile body and to feel her lifeforce filling me.
In the perspective of the last decade, that obsession left almost as soon as it arrived. Seeing her in that doorway, though, with her arms extended and her pen knotted up in her short curly hair, reminded me of that instinct once more. Time conspired with the pregnancies to add a little extra padding around Dot's hips and behind and it softened the sharp jaw she arrived with but the essence of the younger woman was still there.
"Yes, thank you... Jesus, what time is it?" I asked, checking my watch in an attempt to break the spell that had fallen over me. This gave me the cover I needed to quickly hop up, grab the mug, and retreat back to my desk, hoping she would forgive any awkward staring.
"Wow. Damn fine coffee!" I exclaimed, smacking my lips. She didn't laugh at the reference and awkwardly retreated through the door.
It was nearly eleven and I had lost track of time in my newfound zeal for my work. My hands were suddenly fumbling in my pockets, as if by instinct.
"Show me," was the two word sentence I sent to my wife.
I waited with baited breath, trying not to stare at my phone. Finally, I felt that familiar buzz in my pocket. Looking out my door, the coast was clear, but I still only found the courage to raise the the phone under my desk just enough so I could see it.
There was a photo attached to my wife's message of her shadowy thighs and, if I squinted, just a hint of her pubic hair was squeezed between them.
"Not good enough. Lift the dress. I need to see all the way inside."
Now my heart was racing. What had I just done? How embarrassed would I be if she refused? What if that was the text that got my wife fired?
No such tragedy befell us, though. About thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed. There was a new photo. This wasn't like the one with the phone half-stuffed between my wife's knees. In this picture, she was standing in front of a mirror in her office's one-person bathroom and the camera was pointed down at her crotch. I was sure it was my wife, in spite of the limited perspective from the camera. That was her light brown pubic hair. Those were her milky thighs and pointy knees. Her blue dress was pulled up to her waist in front, just enough to frame the top of the inverted triangle shape of her pubic hair. Jutting out from the soft hair at the nadir of her lower torso were her inviting labia folds.
