Rendez-vous

The work is tedious, but necessary. He reads the names, I type them, matching people in functional pairs. Periodically turning to check up when progress grows slow, I smile. Friendly, safe, I smile. Looking up, catching my eye, he smiles back. We work.

I lean over his arm and brush his hand aside with mine, to ostensibly check the spelling of a name I know as well as my own. Another group is made. His hand rests on my shoulder as he leans over me to check a pairing on the computer screen. Poring over the same papers, faces close, we work. But all too soon, our work is completed. Following him down the hall to retrieve our printouts, I feel each step like the condemned prisoner marching to the electric chair, for once collected, the printout will signal the end of our meeting today.

I walk back, copy in hand, and place it carefully in a special folder marked with the reason for our rendez-vous. Slowly, delaying, I slide the folder into my bag, looking up to find him close. Wide-eyed, we exchange hopeful banalities about how we anticipate our work will help the targeted population. I struggle to hold up my end of the conversation, as it is increasingly difficult to concentrate over the "Touch Me" playing a screaming refrain in my head.

Abandoning all pretense, I take a slow step toward him. Careful to read his signals, I tingle with suffused pleasure as, almost shyly, he opens his arms. Stepping flush against him, I cannot say whether my smile is pure or predatory, and I do not care. Wrapped in his arms, pressed firmly against his body, my spirit feeds on the sensation. I feel the warmth of his cheek against mine. I feel his breathing hitch as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I feel his hands sliding down my back to settle in the hollow of my arched spine. I feel the press of his palms as they slide around my hips, and the brush of stubble as his lips close quickly over mine, the barest contact made, the chastest of kisses stolen.

"You're so bad," be murmurs, slipping his fingers into my front pockets and tugging me further toward him. Not even considering my typical demur, as this phrase has become part of our code, I duck my head, giving him a sidelong glance, and drawl "yes." My smile, no longer safe, stays steady as I slide my own palms down his shoulders, resting briefly on his biceps, before stepping reluctantly away.

Yes, I'm bad. I'm bad for wanting this, for encouraging this, and for allowing it. I'm bad for being tempted and tempting in return. Most of all, I'm bad because, selfishly, I want this dalliance more than I want the relationship I've vowed to keep forever.

Looking into his eyes, I wonder just how bad do I dare to be?