Playing with Fire

Oh dear. I was supposed to be home hours ago. But we had this project to finish up and the deadline is tomorrow. Gotta work late...again.

Look, this would just be messy. You have a girlfriend. Or a wife and five kids. And yeah, we keep finding excuses to touch each other, like brushing off that naughty piece of lint that keeps showing up on your suit jacket, or how my hair keeps falling over page 72 of the quarterly management report that you just have to brush aside. We're working so closely together we're popping Altoids like drug addicts and I can hear your sharp intake of breath as my head grazes your crotch, reaching for a dropped pen.

But, you have a girlfriend, or a fiance, or a wife, and you tell me all about your problems--she doesn't understand, she never shuts up, she whines about money, she never wants to have sex. And I ask, then why are you with her? But you can't answer that. You still love her. You don't know how to end it. You're confused. You wish she was more like...me. Then I play Mother Superior, lecturing you about infidelity and how things could never possibly happen between us and how I don't get involved with married or "taken" men.

Yet...here I sit, in your office after the cleaning crew has left, or in my parked car, or in the driveway of the Starlake Motel. Oh dear. I was supposed to be home hours ago.