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I fall away from you, making sure I don’t hunch my shoulders. Recently I’ve noticed that if I do, my breasts slap together. I keep my chin up to tighten the loose flesh lurking there. Being desirable is tiring work.
I look at the bars of light coming in through the blind. Office light from the building across the way. They keep it lit permanently — we turn our lights off every night. Different companies, different strokes. The light stripes our bodies and suddenly I see green hollows in your temples and grey stubble creeping from your ears. It’s over.
I watch as you pull your clothing back together, taking a sneak glance at your watch as you do. I scrag my skirt round so that the seams are where they should be and tug my blouse back into place. We don’t smile at each other.
For six months we’ve been doing this a couple of times a week, working late, screwing on the floor behind the Director’s desk. Lust and revenge are a heady mixture. Every time another stupid ‘memo from the Director’ thumps into my inbox I wonder if — when you typed it — your hands rested where my buttocks once had. We’ve defiled the desk, banged on the carpet, shagged in the leather chair and bonked up against the filing cabinets. But now it’s over.
We walk down the aisle of carpet between the cubies. Each one we pass, you check that the desk light and CPU screen are switched off. I used to sashay down this corridor ahead of you. Now I’m tired and it’s over. I can’t be bothered to place each foot directly ahead of me to make my hips swing. I don’t have the energy. I glance back. You’re not watching anyway.
I try to feel sorrow, or anger. But emotions are like paper cuts — you can’t make them happen. One day, maybe six months from now, I’ll mourn this affair. Perhaps I’ll even rage against the failure of love, or lust, or whatever it was we had. But now I just feel tired.
I pause at the bank of switches that provide the sick fluorescent glare. You check the last cubie and smile at me nervously. You know it’s over too. I slap the switches and plunge the office into darkness.
In the hall you pause. It’s now you usually say something about the next time, before heading down the stairs to your car. But now it’s over. We ride down in the lift together. It doesn’t matter if anybody sees us — we’ve reverted to innocence, just colleagues working late. We’ve left our affair behind us. By tomorrow morning the cleaners will have erased it with bleach, floor wax and silicone polish.
Outside you sketch a wave and walk away. I unlock my car and look at myself in the rear view mirror. One day, maybe a week from now, I’ll care that I’ve lost this interlude between work and home but for now I’m just glad it’s over. I’m sick of working late.
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