Still Life

Jacob and Mary were in the conference room, going over the monthly statements. He was looking at her legs and she could tell he was distracted. He could think of nothing else but her. She was swinging her foot back and forth and tapping the statement rows one by one with her pen. She hoped he would touch her, but he never did.

Except this time, when he put his hand on hers and stopped her pen from tapping the paper. She looked him in the eye, he looked at her lips. They kissed.

Next thing, she was sitting on the table, embracing him with her whole body, trying to merge. They were kissing frantically, greedily, devouring each other’s tongues and lips and faces. He tore her blouse open, she reached for his belt.

He got hold of her hand again. She was wearing her wedding ring. He looked her in the eye defiantly and started to remove it.

“No,” she said. She clenched a fist. Tore it free.

He stepped back. She jumped off the table, closed her blouse, and rushed out of the room. He was left there alone, steaming with desire, panting with anger. On the wall, there was a cheap painting of some plums in a bowl.

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