Queen Of Hearts free porn video

(Romance)
An office romance is dealt an important hand by love.
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Thursday's temperatures wavered between cool and warm. I waited impatiently for the finale of a sudden downpour before opening the window near my desk, to coax the outside in, to cleanse the stuffy office air, to linger near for the cool, damp breeze to finger my warm, dry face. April's weather was not on my list of favorites since the renewing season and I parted company last year. But that changed today—the long winter was over and I welcomed back spring and made amends.

Still I was restless and rubbed the groove at the base of my ring finger—a remnant scar from an absent, seven-year wedding band. My divorce anniversary, tomorrow, nagged at me. For this thirty-one year old male, it was getting too old to be single, again.

"Another front moving through," I mumbled at the cloudy sky.

A once hopeful marriage—Camelot denied—melted into a pragmatic tolerance to become an untidy compromise, a fateful error of infatuation's deceit. What's worse was Susan nor I would untie the strangling knot unilaterally, so we delayed the unavoidable, waiting for our incompatibility to force a decision, a no-fault, legal basis for dissolution. But in the end we at least agreed that it would be beneficial, for the both of us. And what was left for us to salvage? What remained from a seven-year investment were just the hollow questioning echoes: what inattentive c***dren we were; what an injustice the lonely bonding had become—what fools we were not to realize our mistake sooner.

Sure, there could be consolations, some restoration after some of life's mistakes. Sue remarried three weeks ago and restored the life sustaining energy in her unbalanced universe. I sent flowers and called to wish her the best in her new life—with her somebody else.

And it hurt.

What surprised me about the finality of separation was the barrage of youthful familiarities, fuzzy flashbacks of a once-forgotten single life—piquant-flavored morsels all—and the players, ready to deal me a good hand at every turn. Join in the game—and the hunt. Damn, Eric, it's good to have you back, man!

Bullshit.

Out of practice and tentative, the search for anonymous companionship in the city's social cauldron was painful, scorching my unwary, wandering touch. My evening foraging—blind dates, clubs, and singles bars—provided me little more than the occasional high calorie pick-me-up treats low in nutrition, reminders that a famished heart soon rumbles and grumbles after digesting the hurried junk food fixes of casual affections and cheap thrills. There was no nourishment, just a chronic hunger, for something more—something better—something filling.

Moving forward in life comes with a price, and my new bachelorhood was no different, demanding a cover charge, a recurring, hidden cost permitting me reentry to the theater of unfocused freedoms, only to watch the tedious B-movie acting, over and over and over again. Seems this is where I came in. And I leave each play of my peers with bittersweet images, aftertastes, and a mιlange of disappointments, all poor exchanges for the intimacy—the endowment—of marriage. Mistakes in life come with a heavy price.

Before I spiraled into a funk, Elizabeth, the office administrative assistant, interrupted my musing from a closing distance to make eye contact with me. Down the inside aisle toward my desk, her petite figure of twenty-eight years stepped lively in a straight, invisible line. Potential mate? I tucked my meditation under itchy skin and turned on a grin at my morning's only bright spot. More invigorating than the outside air, the weather, or the season, I had to breathe in her clean fragrance as she passed my desk.

"Good morning, Eric," Elizabeth flirted, skirting by, her bouquet delighting my nose.

Clutching a bundle of file folders against her proud, curvaceous body—a tight package with shoulder length, jet-black hair bobbing in harmony with her bouncing, pert breasts—Liz turned into the copier room to reproduce some reports for the monthly finance briefing. I smiled at her well-toned muscular legs and undulating ass emphasized by her tight fitting dress.

"Good morning, Liz," I replied, staring. "You look particularly lovely today."

She always looked particularly lovely.

We knew each other for years, but gradually over the past six months, Liz had become a serious, steady friend who I admired and trusted intimately. Oh, yeah—intimately. What a different marriage—a different life—it could have been with her. Could it, would it progress to the next level?

I think Freud would have found some solace in me as a subject—or patient. My freewheeling id continually coaxed my prudent ego to wrestle with two remaining conflicts that, if resolved, could seal a permanent relationship—a commitment?—between Liz and me. I only wished I knew if she loved me (she, of course, said she did), and I wished I could say I loved her.

Turning back to me with a smile, Liz tossed a dart at my ballooning reverie.

"Billing problem?" she asked.

Pop!

"Sorry?" I was genuinely startled. "Oh, data entry error, I think." I had been trying unsuccessfully to reconcile an invoice typo for a single carton of paper with a seven-digit "Balance Due." Elizabeth's model face and tight form set off a pulsing, bulging erection in my pants. Her gaze enticed me to talk more than just business, but I resisted.

"Want me to call the supplier? I'm supposed to assist with payables, you know. It's part of my job," Liz explained loud enough to create a reason for her to approach.

She invited herself to my desk, to start a helpful conversation. A shiver ran up my back, aided by the contrasting cool of the window breeze and the warmth of Liz's affectionate body. I pushed my chair against my desk, trying to conceal the throbbing muscle along the inside of my thigh. There was no reason to be brazen about it.

Elizabeth leaned over to place her warm face and nose at the entrance of my ear. She intentionally nudged her pubis into my arm and massaged my tense neck with one hand.

"What seems to be your problem?" she asked, no longer referring to the invoice error.

Without further protest I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, and relaxed my shoulders, inviting her soothing rub.

"Oh, I'm all right. I can handle it."

"I'm not so sure," she said, bending forward to touch her cheek to mine, her sweet scent wafting over me.

Because others could be watching, I sat erect in my chair and looked out of the corner of my eye at her pixie grin.

"You came over to cheer me up, didn't you?"

She leaned to wedge her firm breast and erect nipple into my shoulder blade. Smiling she remarked, "Someone's intuition is working today." She paused for my silent reaction. "Your friends, including moi, are worried about your mood swings these past weeks. Why, after all these months, are you letting this get to you?"

"I know, I know. I can't even fucking stand myself," I replied disgustedly, looking at her angelic face. "Thanks, anyway, for remembering. I'm just lost in it all, thinking. How am I supposed to not think about it?" I looked down at my bare, left hand. "Besides, I think you worry too much about me too much. Careful, now, or I'm going to worry from you worrying," I chuckled.

"Time to move on, don't you think? She's remarried."

"Move on to what and to where, honey?" I dryly asked.

Liz grinned. "Move in with me, or let me move in with you."

I smirked. "You never stop. Besides, I'm entitled to sulk a little, don't you think? I've been too damned nice this past year, and it's about time my mood caught up with the times."

"You have it backwards, don't you think? It's time that heals. You made the right decision over a year ago and were satisfied with it. Don't you think you were honest with yourself during these past twelve months? Some of this recent attitude change in you is scary. You've become . . . a different person. We want our old Eric back, the one we know and love."

"I'm still harmless," I joked. "I'm just in a rut and need a change."

"Marry me?" she seriously proposed.

"You're at least focused this morning, aren't you?" I asked glibly. "That's also the fourth time you asked, but who's counting."

She grinned again. "You're not. It's only the third time. But I'll say yes if you offer, then we can stop keeping track."

"The male chauvinist in me still believes a guy should do the asking," I replied, looking at her erect nipples.

She secretly kissed my temple and whispered, "Okay . . . ask."

"But it all hinges on one, small, important detail. I have to get past the part where I first have to say the word, right?"

"It's easy—say it with me," Liz said, clasping my cheeks between her fingers to manipulate my lips. "I . . . love . . . you, Liz." She grabbed my chin to turn my face within inches of her pursed mouth. "When a guy says it, he means it. See?"

"An interesting theory, coming from a woman," I replied with a muffled chuckle.

"If you're not going to say it, I have another idea." Bending closer to my ear, she whispered, "I bet a juicy, hard fuck can take your mind off things."

I closed my eyes to imagine our naked, spooning bodies coupled in a sweltering sauna for lustful, thrusting sex.

"How . . . thoughtful."

"I'll fix what ails ya," she tendered, standing upright, sliding her hand up my back.

"I'd lay odds you could fix a rainy day. And you've always been a help to me," I replied truthfully into her large, blue, unblinking eyes. But my ever vigilant ego forced me to change the subject as I looked away. "Did you ever notice how much time Chelsea and Melia spend staring at each other?"

Elizabeth pressed her hands together to squeeze them between her knees and leaned over to rest her chin in the groove between my neck and shoulder.

"You don't know about them?"

Her tickling chin made my throbbing cock gurgle precum, just loud enough to bait her to look at my crotch for an instant. I nonchalantly looked back over at Chelsea and Melia as they silently smiled at each other.

"They recently became roommates, right?" I whispered.

My face and neck flushed crimson as Elizabeth blinked her long eyelashes along the tiny hairs of my outer ear. I couldn't ask her to stop. I loved it.

"Sometimes you're so innocent and precious," she sighed. "That boyish naivety is very sexy." Suddenly, my tigress pounced and whispered in my ear, "Fuck me in the copier room."

After looking around to see if anyone heard her, I advised, "We should stick to the subject."

A bead of sweat formed on the back of my neck. She shamelessly licked it.

"I'm so horny thinking about you, I can't stand it."

"Liz, please."

"All right," she assented, "if only for a moment." Then she answered my question with a question. "Keep a secret?"

"You know I can."

"They made me promise."

"I promise, damn it."

"They're an item," she whispered.

"Gee," I remarked under my breath, fidgeting in my chair, blinking from a trance, "I do believe I'm incredibly turned on, right now."

Liz placed her warm hand on my shoulder and leaned over to secretly kiss my neck.

"It's a huge turn on for me too. They love each other and talk to me openly about their romance when we're out to lunch. So charming and genuine. It's like what you and I have in common—romance between two lovers."

"We're really best friends," I corrected. She encouraged my interest in combinations and permutations. "So, tell me, did they ever ask you to join them . . . in a three-way?"

"No, 'cause they know I'm straight—and I'm yours."

"Is that right?" I asked, surprised. "And did you tell them I'm yours?"

"Complete that thought for me. I want to hear it from you," she urged under her breath. "Say it. You know you want to. You'll feel better."

"I'm not going there this morning," I warned.

"Oh, Eric, we're so much more than best friends," Liz pouted. "We are in love."

Pushing back, I hinted sarcastically, "Some would say we're just fuck buddies."

It was her turn to taunt. "Okay, buddy, either fuck me doggie-style in the copier room, or I'm off to the restroom—to masturbate . . . wildly. And maybe, just maybe, I'll wait for Chelsea, or Melia, or both to go there. I bet they'd love listening to me, rubbing a moist pussy. Why, I may even let them watch. Being too straight can handcuff a girl, sometimes. Ya know?"

The worst thing about best friends is they know precisely how and when to push the right buttons. I had to press against my erection with my hand. Another bubble of precum made a sound in my pants and wet a spot in the crotch. She watched it and smiled.

Unexpectedly, as if by some scripted cue, Chelsea and Melia rose from their silent conference to walk out the hallway exit. Maybe, they were off to find some quiet room—to masturbate each other. Except for Liz and me, the office, at least for the moment, was empty. I smiled and nodded to Liz at their leaving, and we waited for them to slip back in to the area. But they didn't.

Liz gathered her files, extended her hand, and tugged me from my chair to the copier room. She closed the door behind us and locked it from the inside. Approaching the copier, she fed the top tray with tabbed reports and punched the keypad for a dozen, collated sets. The noisy machine started its two-sided setup.

She turned to me and leaped upward to hang from my neck, offering her luscious lips for a hasty French kiss. Through her knit top and sheer bra, I fondled her supple breasts and large, dark nipples. My hands traced her neck, cupping the back of her head to pull her close to me. She closed he eyes and opened her mouth to accept my wild, darting tongue.

With slow, pressing strokes, Liz's open hand cycled up and down my rigid shaft, along its pulsing length from the bottom of my hanging, aching balls up to the protruding outline of my glans. We both breathed rampantly through our noses for a long, passing minute until our friction-reddened lips finally parted with a moist gasp.

"I have the only key," she said, catching her breath. "We don't have much time. I thought about you last night and this morning." Turning around to bend over a small table, she quickly lifted up her dress to expose her black-laced panties. "Please, hurry, and fuck me," she implored.

The active urgency in her voice drove me to distraction.

"Damn, Liz," I whispered.

Just below the noise of the copier, she urged, "I'm so wet, I can smell it. Now, give it to me."

Liz wiggled her luscious ass in the air, enticing me to assist with her tight dress. Carefully, leisurely, I rolled up the knit fabric past her wide hips and thin waist to caress her smooth, fever-hot skin. My pupils dilated at the thought of her wanton invitation. The cramped erection uncoiled in my pants sprung upward to wedge under my belt buckle. Instinctively, I pressed the bulging fabric of my zipper flap into the crease of her exposed panties.

"Don't linger," she sighed impatiently. "Pull them down."

But I wanted to linger pawing Liz's full hips to finger the elastic waistband. Slowly sliding her damp panties down to the mid-point of her thighs, I felt excited as her skin flushed before my eyes. Still there was no need to hurry. I clamped my middle and ring fingers together, stroking her waist and hips with a titillating touch, sliding them across her perfect ass cheeks to the inside of her shaven vulva.

Liz felt feverishly warm and it excited me more. She spread her legs to allow me easier access to her inner thighs. Viscous dew from her distended labial lips instantly coated my petting fingers. She was right—I could smell her, too—that earthy, female succulence. With a deliberately long swipe, I interrupted my slow, steady stroking to withdraw two fingers away and lick off a stringy thread of her sweet honey.

"Very hot and wet," I flattered, smacking my lips.

"Don't tease," she panted, looking back only at the bulge pushing out my zipper flap.

I unbuckled my belt and let my pants to drop. My cock eagerly poked through the opening in my boxer shorts. Smiling at the minor time convenience—there was no need to pull down my underwear—I clutched my leaking erection to glide the sensitive, mushroom head along the length of her swollen gash, slathering it with slippery, preseminal fluid.

Then reaching around her thigh to feel for her large, erect clit, my finger lubricated her sweltering slit. She bowed her back and shook her perfectly formed ass against me. The sight of her nude skin and round orbs unleashed a primeval desire to hump my pelvis forward, thrusting the front of my erection into her creviced flesh.

"Fuck it!" Liz insisted.

Her dripping vagina signaled its readiness to receive my expanding manhood. With two hands free, I caressed her ribs and encircled her full breasts, fanning my open fingers across her firm nipples, stopping briefly to pinch her large, dark areolas.

Gently, I plugged my pulsing cock's engorged head at the entrance of her willing, wet hole. I was ready and ravaged her spongy depths, seeking entrance to her cervix. She gasped from each forceful thrust.

"That's it . . . do it again, baby. Don't stop now—fuck it hard and deep."

Closing my eyes I grunted with a primitive purpose to jackhammer into her. "You . . . should . . . not . . . have . . . done . . . this."

"Punish . . . it . . . then," she puffed convulsively, her white-knuckled fingers tightly clasping the edges of the table.

Liz's bucking hips welcomed the increased intensity of my driving pelvic. I wanted to impregnate my captive female in heat. Over the sounds of her disjointed groans and pants, I gored her sopping, velvet with a relentless determination. I was close. My upper body tensed and firmed to divert all power of motion to my penetrating muscle. In less than a short, euphoric minute, we ignited the fireworks of sex, setting off our explosive throes of passion.

"I'm ready for you, baby."

"Squirt it in me," she moaned. "I want to feel it, first."

It's all I needed. Bending my neck backward to face the ceiling, my eyes rolled under my lids while I locked my jaw to grit my teeth, grunting loudly. My stiff cock powered ahead to jet three prolonged torrents of hot cum into her womb. I couldn't stop—I didn't want to. The surging, volcanic releases of pressured, liquid ecstasy erupted from the pit in my loins. Again and again. My head jerked forward; my mouth gaped; my eyes opened, but I remained oblivious to my surroundings. Repeatedly, blasts of flowing heat spewed free from my pulsing organ to deluge her silky cavern.

"Ah . . . aaahhhhh," I urgently exhaled, "now, cum for me."

"Oh, God, I feel your jizz spurting in me," she cried. It pushed her over the top. "Oh, fuck! I'm cumming, sweetie—I'm cumming!"

As her head angled back to me in profile, her eyes winced, her torso stiffened, and her mouth opened satisfyingly. I continued to ram her firm body while yanking her hips back against my abdomen, rocketing the final bursts of man-juice into her.

"Oh, Liz," I groaned.

"Keep . . . fucking . . . me," she begged.

Her multiple orgasm sent rolling waves of vaginal undulations along the along the length of my swollen shaft, extending my orgasm to a throaty shudder. Strong, vaginal tremors milked the oozing, thick cream from my surging member. She still practiced her Kegel exercises.
"It's . . . it's sucking the cum from me," I grunted, trying to maintain balance. My pelvis slammed forward to anchor my unbending cock deep inside her.

"Oh, yes," she groaned. "Fuck it all the way up there."

Straining muscles and blood vessels bulged in her contorted face and flushed neck as she concentrated on her vaginal muscle contractions that drained unspent semen from my throbbing rod. Our rapid breathing slowed to a single, satisfying exhale. I finally withdrew my viscid erection from her drenched pussy. The musky odors from our hot, sweaty sex permeated the room.

Unpredictably Liz turned around to sit on the table to lift and spread her legs. Locking her wide eyes onto mine, she wiped her open hand along her drenched slit, coating her fingers with a blend of my white juice and her clear nectar, and delivered the thready mixture to her sucking lips and flicking tongue. After anxiously plunging and extracting her fingers in and out of her seeping pussy, she noisily slurped clean the translucent paste from her knuckles and nails. My erection beat hard while I watched her feeding spectacle.

Looking down at my soggy, heart-pulsing cock, I muttered, "I can't put it back in my pants like this."

She stared tantalizingly at my veined pole dribbling white globs of cum to pool between the crevices of my slowly rolling testicles. Dismounting the table, Liz quickly knelt before me, grabbed my throbbing organ, and devoured its entire length down her pliant throat.

On each upstroke she lapped my runny load onto her frenzied, twirling tongue. On each suck she looked up at me with her large, unblinking eyes, and smacked her smiling lips free of white droplets. Electric spasms coursed up my spine from her mouthing of my pulsing, sensitive glans. Then with a long, slow swallow, she inched down my turgid shaft, vacuuming up all of the remaining gooey, white trickles. At last she separated from me to reveal my clean, glistening manhood.

After licking her lips, she remarked, "M-m-m-m . . . you taste good this morning."

"Pineapple juice for breakfast," I explained.

"It went right through you," she replied, smiling.

She rose to stand and gaze at me with her sex-flushed skin and glowing face, greeting my quaking hands that softly stroked her cheeks and neck. We smiled at each other while hurriedly dressing and adjusting our clothing.

But when she turned to unlock the door to exit the room, I grabbed her waist, spun her small body around to face me, and pinned her back against the wall. I tongued her neck and buried my nose below her ear, tasting and breathing her sweaty, sweet skin. She closed her eyes. Her warm body went limp in my arms as she mewled from my pleasuring nuzzle.

"I needed that," I whispered into her ear. "You know me like the back of your hand."

"But I still can't seem get my little finger around you." She licked my earlobe. "Let's get back to your desk before someone comes back."

Finished with our "copying" activities, we quietly opened the door and peered out for lurkers and listeners. No one was in the office area, so we left the noisy copier run its job while we quickly returned to my desk.

I slumped into my chair with weakened knees, still trying to catch my breath. Liz hugged me from behind and bent over to set her chin into my neck, allowing me to sniff her sex-fragrant skin. Turning to look at her, I rubbed my nose under her rosy ear and caressed her face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her gawk at my semi-flaccid bulge.

"That was very nice," she sighed, closing her eyes. "Thanks for being so . . . accommodating."

I grinned. "It was, of course, my pleasure. You're a temptress, but you know I love it."

"We love a great many things—like, each other."

"Tricking me to say it isn't fair."

"No trick," she said, smiling.

"Yeah, we certainly love a lot of things," I acquiesced. "We have a lot in common, you and I. And you know what else? We rarely quarrel about anything."

"Well, there are a few subjects we have difficulties with."

And with that my desktop calendar's silently shouted tomorrow's date. A dull thumping in my heart replaced its excited beating just moments ago.

Damn it Liz, where were you eight years ago?

"Can't have everything," I lamented.

Liz backed away slightly to eye my face and changing my mood.

"For the five years I've been here, you've been wonderful to me. I think that's why we're so close. A true friendship developed first between us. And you know I love being with you. We like a lot of the same things—except anchovies on Paul's pizzas." She giggled, goading me to smile, "And, of course," she blew into my ear, "you know I love the sex."

Forcing a grin I looked up to her to ask, "Isn't it funny we don't talk about it?"

Liz became meditative to mirror my mood. The smile ran from her face—the moment became awkward. "I'm really sorry about your marriage and divorce. I'm constantly trying new things I could say and do to cheer you up—and to please you. But it takes two to have that conversation, honey. I want to talk about it, but we don't."

She was right. Again. Doing it was one thing, but that subject was uncomfortable, even for me, rarely making it into our conversations, a semi-conditioned, carryover taboo from my seven years with Susan.

"No need to apologize." I managed a smile. "You know my final separation from Sue went fairly well, actually—at least, legally—and you've been a real comfort to me this past year, especially these past six months. I can't thank you enough. You've been the best for me."

She slowly looked away. "So you've told me."

"Anything wrong with being the best?"

"Eric, why are you still afraid after all these months?" she began. "Open the gate, already. Friendship is one thing, but I want to explore love with you."

Her favorite concept. I theorized a woman's desire to hear that word aloud from a guy was to satisfy some Darwinian test of male fitness—freedom of commitment. But I learned a hard lesson from a suffocating, seven-year constriction, and trusted a defensive strategy: deny love its kill by parrying the lunging thrusts from its bloody, double-edged blade.

"What's wrong with our relationship the way it is?"

After glancing around the office, I slid my open hand up her inner thigh. She didn't flinch.

"Love can't be a game of solitaire, sweetheart. I need it, too. Otherwise, it's called masturbation."

"Liz, I make love to you—I don't make sex to you."

"Don't twist my meaning—it's different. You have sex with me, but do you really love me?"

I paused for a long moment. "Maybe, there will come a time, soon, when I can actually say it."

It was my cue for her to change the subject. She rubbed her cheek against mine and kissed it to continue on to her second favorite subject.

"I've found my G-spot with my contour vibrator. It was the most wonderful orgasm, to cum so hard, fucking myself with it . . . while thinking only of you. I can't wait for you to confirm my discovery with your sensual fingers."

I swallowed at the thought of a pelvic examination of her. "Are you just saying that to tease me, just after the probing I just gave you?"

"A woman is always truthful to her love doctor about something as intimate as that. It's another hot button you'll have to find and push to see what happens."

"I may have to make a special house call to learn where all the pressure points are—clinical research on my part," I offered, licking my lips.

"Continuing education is very important. Then, of course, there is all the exhaustive research before we put it into rigorous practice." She giggled in another attempt to get a rise out of me, but it was a far as we dared in the open office. Her grin softened and a more serious expression masked her face. "Won't you at least talk to me about it? You'll feel better."

"My marriage and divorce are more subjects we don't cover a lot, do we?" Physically and emotionally drained, my mood wandered aimlessly. "I've come to terms with most of it, I guess. It's been a hard row to hoe—and I really don't consider myself a very good gardener." Her wide, attentive eyes made me uncomfortable at feeling down. I tried to apologize, "I'm sorry but I'm still preoccupied with it. But with Sue marrying again, at least it will improve my finances." Avoiding eye contact with her, I turned toward my open window to hide my moistening eyes. "Boy, smell that fresh air."

She rubbed my neck with her hands. "Twelve months tomorrow, right?"

She kept track of things like that—about me. It mattered to her. I mattered to her.

"An anniversary turned on its head." The uttered admission chilled me. "But it's just another year in a life. At least it should be."

Liz's eyes scanned my face, and after a long, thinking pause, her voice became dear and sweet.

"I wanted to thank you, again, for the wonderful time we had upstate three weeks ago. You treat me like a princess, when you want to."

"You are a princess," I confirmed, smiling. "A beautiful princess."

Then she took the opportunity to unveil a small surprise. "You know I get jealous when I'm not the center of your attention. It's because you're the center of mine."

"That's not fair, Liz," I retorted. "You make it harder for me to give in to something I just can't right now. Besides, you have other male friends."

Her stare was disappointing. "Friends, not lovers? I think this regular thing between us is at the doorstep to commitment."

"So instead of every third night, we'll make it every other night?"

"It's just not the sex, darling, I want something deeper from you—the next step in the natural course of things." Her face reddened from discomfort. After looking around the room and fixing her eyes to mine, she slammed her open palms on my desk, and scolded, "Damn it, Eric! Do I have to tell you I'm yours? Okay, I will! I want to be your wife. And what's more, you need me."

"Are you going to say it—again?"

"I say it willingly. I love you," she whispered gently.

And she meant it—she had always meant it. But could I mean it? Ever again? By some conditioned reflex, I peered down at my naked ring finger to search in vain for the apparition of a gold band.

Smiling back up to her bright eyes, I said, "Almost a year to the day and the thought of commitment still reins me in. It's characteristic of the divorced male gene, you know." At least one of us smiled at my joke. Gambling, I fibbed, "Anyway, I suppose I like my freedom, now."

"Eric, who are you k**ding? . . . You?"

It never worked. I lied terribly to her, and she knew it. The best I could ever hope for was to just hold back. But there was only one problem: I could only remain silent for so long before it exploded from me. And so after a quiet minute, the inevitable coerced me to stir the thick air first.

"I'm sorry but I just can't seem to get beyond these past several weeks. After I dated for a year before we married, I knew I was ready for the ultimate in relationships, with body, mind, and spirit. But I realized—we realized—too late we couldn't match what each of us could actually give. And I lost faith believing in me because of my poor judgment. I just can't make that kind of mistake again." I reached up to finger her trusting face. "I really like you, a lot—and I do love you—as a friend. It's very important to me to keep that close and special. We can get serious, one day—some day, maybe even soon. But anything permanent by me, right now, is just too difficult. You just got to understand."

"But the clock's running on me, too, Eric. The thing is I know you have the capacity to go far beyond where you are, now—where we are, now."

"Then, at least for today, let's agree to disagree, okay?" I offered to compromise, but I had to say it—my ego needed the elbowroom. "I think you can do better than me."

"Are you testing me, Eric? Are you going to sit there and tell me that you don't if I go on a fucking date with someone else?" she challenged. "I'll bet you dinner it does."

"A tough bet to collect on. What do I get if I win?"

"The good news is you get me either way. It would be just a date—not a commitment," she explained, grinning.

"Ah, I see. One of those win-win deals?"

"Tell you what. We haven't had lunch together this week," Elizabeth suggested with a stare from her blue eyes that penetrated the depths of my psyche. "I think destiny demands that we explore a very important subject, in greater depth."

"Sex?" I taunted. She smiled and shook her head. I tried again, "Intimacy?"

"Love," she replied, ending my tease. Her fingers and nails rubbed my neck and upper back.

Owing Liz a meaningful discussion on her favorite subject, I relented. "Sure, why not? Let's go out for a long lunch today—my treat."

"You're my treat. I'll stop by your desk later."

She grinned, rubbed my neck a final time, and walked back to the copier to finish her work.

* * * * * * *

The remainder of the morning passed quietly and productively. Liz bounced by my desk at five minutes before noon.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I'll drive," I said, clearing my head. "I made reservations at La Poca Italia. Paul reserved your favorite table out back."

"You read my mind. Order for me today? I get aroused when you surprise me," she whispered.

"Yes, another hot button of yours."

"Let's go. I'm ravenous!" she bobbed.

I grabbed my jacket and umbrella, and we left the morning behind.

But the drive across town in a quiet car to our favorite, family-owned, Italian restaurant, on a rainy afternoon, did little to elevate my hidden, glum mood. Ego and id were not invited but tagged along anyway—to fight. Bastards! I was glad Liz was with me; she made my miserable day and self-destructing attitude tolerable.

We finally arrived and parked and left the car in a huddled rush under my large umbrella to slosh through the pouring rain for the main door. I pushed it open and we barged ahead of an impatient, hungry queue to stand for inspection in front of the maitre d'.

"Good afternoon," came the warm greeting. Older brother of the owner, and fourth-generation vintner, Paul was a close friend to Liz and me. He loved engaging Liz with his amicable grin and genial eyes. "It is so nice of you to come by, Eric." Paul leaned forward slightly to Liz and spoke more softly. "And it is my particular pleasure to see you, Miss Elizabeth. Your table is ready. I will seat you myself."

After Paul waved to his oldest son, Michael, to take over the temporary duties as restaurant gatekeeper, he grabbed two menus from his podium and quickly plowed through the crowded dining room to clear a path for us to the alcove at the back of the restaurant. It was Liz's favorite spot to talk and relax—intimate, quiet, and very private.

A clean, white linen covered table was ready to receive familiar company. Paul assisted with Liz's seat while I sat myself. Our host folded his hands and played a tennis volley with his stares, first smiling at me, then at her, then back to me.

"Eric? When are you going to propose to your wonderful princess?" Paul asked, smiling gently.

"When your vineyard produces wine as good as your 1982," I quipped without hesitation.

Paul's expression became strict. "I'm serious, my very good friend. It isn't healthy for a man to remain single. It puts undue stress on the heart and the stomach, and it can drive the mind crazy," he lectured while looking at Liz, reaching for her chin but not touching it. "And what a wonderful gift Miss Elizabeth is for you."

Our customary banter, normally a satisfyingly long, drawn-out pre-appetizer, was somehow awkward and different today.

Liz looked over at my discomfort and was about to speak, but I raised my finger and started: "There're a lot of single people that survive just fine, thank you. I think—"

Liz interrupted, "Paul, you know how he is." She giggled staring at me. "He's just waiting for the perfect moment to ask."

Astonished I glared back at her. "You're encouraging him."

"Why fight destiny?" Paul questioned. "You two know it's going to happen. Admit it to yourselves—especially you, Eric. In these circumstances, if I do say for myself, the perfect moment must always be the present! So why do you wait? I will also have you know that my brother and I have talked about the two of you, and we are prepared to close this restaurant and prepare it for your wedding reception—as our gift to both of you. And what a cake we have in mind."

Paul's old-world style surfaced my new world contrariness. Apparently, I wasn't going to enjoy lunch after all.

I stared at Liz while speaking to Paul. "We'll have a bottle of Chablis, and I'll order for both of us."

"Of course," Paul said, folding his arms behind him, leaning over slightly. He no longer took written notes—the kitchen always screwed up his orders. "Chocolate, marble, white, or yellow?" Paul quizzed.

"Pardon?" I asked.

"The wedding cake," Paul clarified. "Do you like chocolate, marble, white, or yellow? Then, of course, we still must decide on the icing, the design, and the decorations."

I stared at Paul while handing him back our menus. "Liz will have a cup of wedding soup, shrimp cocktail, scampi, small salad with house dressing, and tiramisu for dessert—with a cappuccino."

"And for you, sir?" Paul struck a match to light two, homemade, yellow-white tapers. As the light grew two luminous circles at the center of the table, he turned to grin at Liz. "Don't you think Miss Elizabeth looks particularly lovely today?"

The orange glow sparkled in Liz's eyes as she tongued and lipped a silent "thank you" in response.

"Yes, very lovely," I answered tersely. "I'll have a bowl of wedding soup, spinach salad, oysters on the half-shell—watch the garlic, Paul—and lime ice for dessert with an espresso. Oh, except for my salad dressing—make it French," I emphasized straight-faced.

Paul looked down at me to raise a single eyebrow, but deftly avoided a verbal critique of my condiment selection.

"Very good. I will be back with your wine very shortly." He had a departing comment, "Eric, Miss Elizabeth is a most wonderful lady. You two—and I know this to be true—will make the perfect couple. You see, it is my job in this business to know such things—how to satisfy the hunger." As he placed his hand on my shoulder, the Italian mystic continued, "And other times, I fan the flames of honest passion."

"Keep a fire extinguisher handy near your tarot cards," I jabbed back.

"Thank you for coming," Paul said, unfazed by my retort. "It is so nice to see you both. Please, relax and enjoy each other. I will be right back." He bowed slightly and left Liz and me alone at the table.

I couldn't look directly at her as I plucked a dry sesame breadstick from the cluster projecting from a tall ceramic glass near the center of the table. Liz stared at me through the flickering candlelight. Yellow-orange shadows danced and glowed across her face.

"You actually enjoyed that, didn't you?" I asked, picking the seeds off my breadstick.

She ignored my question.

"Thank you for ordering for me. See? You can be romantic too. It gets me so wet." She waited for a response from me—but none came. "You don't have to be so cranky, even today," Liz protested, interrupting my stillness. "Paul always asks about your proposing to me when we come here."

"But I heard a little more from him, today. Something new," I complained, looking up at her. "And I don't think friends shouldn't embarrass friends."
"He's a little forward at times but you and I have known him for years. His honesty is from the heart—and he says what he means. When I bump into him at the market, he always asks about you. You've been a loyal friend to him and his family. It's only natural that he's concerned about you."

"Okay, okay. I'll apologize when he comes back," I grudgingly grumbled, and chomped at the denuded end of my breadstick.

"That could encourage him, again. Do you want that?"

"For Chrissakes, Liz! A reception and a wedding cake? I'm beginning to wonder if you conspire with Paul. I think you not only want that but you encourage him to say things. I just think it would be better if I also had some say into my personal life—thank you, very much. Besides, what does he . . . want do you two want me to do?"

"You already know what I want. As for Paul you heard him—he wants to fan the flames of passion. But instead there you are with a soggy, wet blanket, ready to toss it on a warming fire at the first signs of smoke. I think you can pick up a few tips from him." She folded her hands to support her chin.

"He can learn a few things also. For one thing, he still calls you Miss Elizabeth," I said sorely.

"You're the one that told me you didn't mind him saying that. Besides, it's endearing—and I love it. His use of that word is his way of being polite," she defended. "And he treats me royally."

"I can't believe you just said that."

"You can't separate a Roman from romanticism," she sniffed.

"You're a sexist!" I chortled.

Covering her mouth, Liz tittered, "You may call me Your Highness."

"I have a lot to learn about European protocol. Then again maybe there's little hope for any cultural improvement in me," I added acerbically.

"They'll bake us a big, multi-layered, wedding cake," Liz sighed, dreamily. "Italian marble."

"We're not getting that for dessert. I've already ordered."

"Sweetheart, I know it's been a tough, long, year, but when are you going to lighten up?"

"If you keep that up, I'm not going to have that G-spot exploratory with you tonight," I threatened.

Slowly folding her napkin on her lap, she huffed, "You're presumptuous." Crossing her arms on top of the table, Liz offered a stunning surprise. "I've made other plans for this evening."

It was as though my ears heard a painful ping of metal on metal. Thor's hammer struck hard as I swallowed and searched the echoing recesses of my brain to find the words.

"Hey, protocol doesn't work that way! When I buy you lunch or dinner, you're supposed to have sex with me."

"Now, who's really sexist? Besides, we did it this morning, remember? I made plans after our conversation. Your so-called promise to have a date with me soon did not mean tonight."

"Good for you." Looking away and snapping another breadstick in two, I briefly thought about stabbing one of the raggedy edges in my eye but decided the little tube toast had nutritional value. I bit a chunk off—including the sesame seeds—and noisily munched. "So it looks like I lost the bet."

"You owe me a sumptuous supper—and a juicy dessert."

Extending her hand across the table to invite my touch, I looked over at her and reluctantly reached to fondle her affectionate, tender fingers. I wanted to feel her warm softness slide along my cool, lonely hand.

But Paul returned too soon with the unopened bottle of Chablis. Expertly removing the cork, he offered it to me for my obligatory sniff.

"Very nice," I remarked. "And Paul, I want to apologize for my remarks before. I meant Italian dressing." Looking directly over at Liz, I added, "And any other nuptial insights you have to offer are appreciated." I wanted the designated romance instructor to continue his tutoring of me. Perhaps, Liz would enjoy it.

"Why, there is no need for you to apologize, Eric. I was still going to bring you the extra virgin olive oil you always order with your salad. I knew it had to be a mistake on your part." He bent down to loudly whisper behind the back of his hand. "Maybe you had other things on your mind," the maitre d' suggested, winking at Elizabeth.

Paul poured wine in my glass for a test taste. I sucked the fruity liquid through my teeth, swirled it over my tongue, and nodded appreciatively at its satisfying bouquet.

"Thank you, Paul," I genuinely complimented and smiled at our holding hands. He filled our glasses and then twisted the bottle in the attendant ice bucket. "Enjoy," he said, departing.

He didn't stay to behave like the nosey matchmaker I wanted him to be and left Liz and me alone to continue our tκte-ΰ-tκte.

Liz covered a toothy grin. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"Go ahead, have your date," I slowly answered. "You're just getting back at me."

"Revenge should be reserved for card games," she bristled. "I tried earlier this morning to be more than a best friend to you. Can't I have a little fun?"

"Love. You did want to talk about that, right?"

Liz sipped her wine and gazed into my eyes through the miniature, flickering fires atop the table luminaries. "Do you love me, Eric?"

"What is it that makes a woman want to ask that fucking question anyway?" I asked exasperatedly. "Do you need to hear it to believe it?"

"I do," she answered softly.

Those two words were like a slap across my already stinging face. The hairs on the back of neck stood on end. She answered the question, but my alert ego heard the wedding vow affirmation.

"I just can't say it, Liz," I said, looking at her through the dwindling candle flames.

I swilled my wine in one gulp and quickly poured a refill, refusing to taste. The depressant benefits of the alcohol were more important to me.

"Maybe I'm rushing things," she said. "Want to talk about . . . sex?" she said smiling, squeezing my hand harder.

"Sure, why not," I whispered sarcastically. "Let's call Paul back over to have a three-way discussion. Or let's invite that cute, young server over there and make it a fucking orgy! Better yet we can talk about making sure your date knows how to turn on your vibrator before looking for your G-spot!"

I removed my hand from hers to hide it under the table. Liz pulled away, leaned back in her seat, and crossed her arms.

"All right, if you really won't seriously talk to me about love, I'll cancel my date if you honestly talk to me about sex."

I sighed, "Don't cancel your date. We'd both suffer."

"And who did you think I had in mind as the replacement?"

"Now who's presumptuous?" I asked smugly, still struggling to remove the arrow from my back.

"You've been a bear these past few weeks. Can't you stop hurting yourself this way? You're hurting other people around you. You . . . you sometimes hurt me." A long pause fluffed the air. "Desperado," she sighed, almost singing it.

It felt good. It's what I needed, to be punished by a good smack across my self-esteem. Something felt justified for once, at least like it did a year ago, that strange mix of painful pleasure and numbing gratitude.

"I'll stop hurting when I let love back in, is that it?" I asked broodingly. "Isn't that what you want to hear from me?"

"Well, well, well. Here we are, a year later, and we're only now making some progress," she remarked analytically. "She's started a new life—it's about time you move on with yours."

"It's bad enough with Paul as a matchmaker—I don't need a shrink, too."

"Sweetheart, what do you need?" she asked, offering her hand again. "Tell me, please?"

I didn't reach for her.

"What this fucking divorced guy needs is to have a fling from commitments—to do something crazy or have something crazy done to me. I need pure, hedonistic self-satisfaction. I need to get it out of my system—I need to purge it from me. I need—"

"I, I, I!" she interrupted. "Just listen to you!" She rose from her seat and threw her balled-up napkin at the table. "I'll have Paul call me a cab."

I never saw her angry before—ever. "Please, don't go," I begged. "I'm sorry. I'll behave."

"No, I won't stay, but I do agree with you on one thing, ace—you really do need to purge."

She left her seat and gathered up her jacket and rhinestone-studded clutch that glittered in the low candlelight.

I stood up to plead, "At least let me drive you back."

"We'll do this again, when—and only when—I hear more we in the conversation," Liz rebuked, turning to leave without looking back.

"Queen of Diamonds," I murmured aloud.

Id and ego were finished fighting—with me—at least for the moment, so I cancelled lunch, drank the bottle of wine instead, and left apologizing to a more than gracious Paul. Leaving the restaurant in a lightheaded, self-pitying stupor, I entertained the laughing rain, stumbling and mumbling to my car. The ceaseless drizzle that pelted my windshield activated the only intelligent brain cell I had left, warning me that it was risky to drive in my mental and physical states. I slouched despondently in the front seat to watch the car windows fog over, resigned to sober up before sloshing through the traffic back to work.

Back to her?

After my mind cleared to make room for a thumping headache, I started my car and trekked back across town, slogging through the cold drizzle. The five-minute drive felt like fifty.

I'll tell her I'm sorry.

But when I finally arrived at the office lot, and parked, and trudged into the building and up the steps to make a beeline for Liz's station, her light was off and her desk locked. She was gone.

"Liz took the rest of the afternoon off," said Chelsea, watching me stare at the void in my day. In my life? "Something about a personal commitment she couldn't break."

"Thank you, Chelsea." I managed to say something nice.

Upon returning to my desk, I sulked and thought of nothing but Liz—and her date that should never have been. The afternoon dragged as I tried to immerse myself in paperwork.

But the dissipating wine buzz and complimentary migraine almost made me forget—four o'clock, today, was the scheduled time and date. The unexpected discovered me. Erotic phone chat became a recent, secret, diversion during the past two weeks. It was different, to say the least, sexy and mysterious. While I was at the office, an unsolicited, anonymous, cell phone harlot called me to schedule our twice-a-week sessions. Always initiating contact the temptress encouraged me to listen on agreed-to times, enlightening me into the lurid wordplay of the heard and the unseen.

This occasional snack offered some useful insights into sexual conversation. The only constraint in this setup was the conversations had to take place during working hours. How convenient for her. Strange as it was, it did not—could not—produce (at least what I assumed) the intended, bottled-up, sexual tension that could have been satisfied by an exuberant masturbation session back at my apartment after work. It was for me, instead, an interesting point-counterpoint.

How she contacted me, obtained my number, or even got my name, I only guessed. Did she know I was single? Maybe, she just enjoyed doing it. Or maybe it was future business, aided and abetted by somebody in our office. Or maybe I didn't want to know. Skeptical at first I quickly became intrigued and infatuated with my covert activity. Since this candy-fix fed my prurient interests to discuss sex, any need to rationalize why I did what I did became meaningless to me.

And as I replayed Liz's words over in my head—you really do need to purge—I not only had justification, I had permission.

Staring uneasily at my phone's unlit, outside-line light, I became a bomb expert ready to disarm the explosive's timer as the seconds counted down to zero. A surge of adrenalin pricked the moment to urgency. I knew she was going to call but still recoiled in my seat from the ring. Before answering I scanned the office and saw only Chelsea and Melia busy discussing a presentation for a client. Peering down at my watch—right on time—I swallowed before placing a clammy hand over the receiver to lift it off its cradle.

"Ha . . . hello?" I stuttered.

Pressing the phone firmly against my left ear to hermetically seal it from the office air, I covered my other ear with my other hand in an inane attempt to muffle any sound that could radiate from my skull. At first I heard licking, wetting lips, then a long, soft, female sigh that blew a sexy breeze into the receiver to delight my eardrum. I closed my eyes to relish the sounds of her voice and lips of moistened sensuality, soft and in a low whisper—almost indiscernible—stroking my inner ear like the tip of a feather.

"Hello, Eric," she softly whispered. "I've been thinking about you and your thick, throbbing cock. I can't wait to grab your hot sex muscle and fuck it up my juicy box."

Her whispers lacked the tonal quality for voice recognition. Almost professional in disguise, I strained to hear. And what made it more difficult for me to hear was the call sounded as if it was made outside in an annoying wind, like that passing over a TV weather reporter's microphone during a heavy breeze or gale. Did she do that on purpose, to force me to listen to her more closely? I closed my eyes to nurture the erotic images she just planted. For the first time since we started these calls, the nerves in my neck and shoulders tingled.

"Yes, I have a copy of that invoice right here," I replied, reopening my eyes to fumble for any manila file folder closest to my fingertips.

The stimulating phone voice breathed deeply. "Well, sugar, did you think about what we talked about last time? Do you want to get together? You know how I want that fuck muscle of yours to shoot lots and lots of hot, sticky cum in me."

I thought about her rendezvous idea over my objecting skepticism. We were really k**ding each other. Or were we? Healthy cynicism or not, I was prepared to forgo all the sanity checks that would normally stop an act of desperation like this. Yes, damn it, I was going to meet with her—especially tomorrow. A bead of perspiration formed over my eyebrow as I tried to think. I touched the salty drop and rubbed it between my fingertips.

"I can get you the final figure after I double-check some numbers," I said, trying to swallow again. "Is tomorrow okay for you to . . . to get it?"

The phone voice sighed, "A Friday lunch? M-m-m-m. Man-sausage for me. Yes . . . a nice, thick, juicy, tube steak filled with white sauce would be delicious." The words slithered off her wet tongue to lick my ear. She did not allow time for the image of me as a meal sink in when she added, "I'll bring the hot buns."

Closing my eyes and biting my lower lip to prevent from cursing aloud, I forced the phone tightly against my ear and asked, "Where?" The erotic phone whisperer paused for an interminably long time. At first, I thought I lost the connection. "Are you still there?"

"You seem serious," she finally remarked.

"Yes, I'm serious. Aren't you?" There was another silence, longer than the first, without any of the heavy breathing. "Hello?" I asked.

"In that case, hot stuff, there is that small, sleazy motel, Two-Eyed Jacks? I think you know the place. It's where all the town's sex-craved lovers gather to lick, and suck, and fuck themselves deliriously."

"There?" I gulped and bit my tongue between my front teeth. Her succulent, moist, separating lips stimulated the nerves connecting my ear to my groin.

"Why don't I meet you there around noon, tiger? Just thinking of that makes me hot. M-m-m-m . . . I just hope the motel is busy that time of day. It just makes my pussy twitch." The words dripped into my ear. "You know how I just love to hear the bed springs squeal and headboards pound against the walls from the moaning and groaning of others having wild . . . hard . . . fucking . . . sex!"

Clearing my throat I responded, "No, I didn't know that." Removing my handkerchief from my pants, I patted the back of my damp neck. "But that's a good time, tomorrow, at noon. I'll have that . . . figure for you."

The background wind died down. She used the opportunity to lap the phone with a flick of her tongue.

"The only figure I need is that hard, stiff body of yours, to satisfy these aching holes of mine," the phone tart moaned quietly, just above a whisper. "Now don't be late or I may have to pleasure this wet slit all by myself. You see I've been putting off touching it, waiting for your special attention." After sucking a deep breath through her front teeth, she exhaled, "Until we meet tomorrow, at noon? I'll try to reserve Room 2 for us. Goodbye, lover."

Her moistened lips blew a soft kiss that tickled the tiny hairs of my flinching ear.

"Goodbye," I whimpered, fumbling the receiver onto its cradle.

It was certainly was an eventful Thursday.

* * * * * * *

Friday's drive to work—on yet another sloppy, overcast, and raining morning—wrung an improved mood out of me after a night of deep reflection and blissful sleep. I thought seriously about a cooling off period with Liz. She deserved better than me. Hell, I deserved better than me. She has other friends, and who knows? Something could develop between her and any number of mystery dates to keep her occupied for months—or years.

Since Liz was generally first in the office, I wanted to talk with her privately before the others arrived and she started her morning routines. As predicted, she was already at the noisy copying machine.

"Feeling better?" she asked without looking at me.

"I deserved that," I responded, sheepishly. "I feel foolish, and I still owe you dinner."

"No, you don't deserve it, and no you're not a fool. I was just asking, that's all."

"I also need to show how grateful I am for your concern. Yes, thank you, I do feel better, and I'm in pretty good spirits this morning. I have to be today, right?"

"You don't have to be or do anything you don't want to."

"I want to ask about your date," I prodded. "Honestly, I hope you had a nice time."

"I cancelled it," Liz abruptly replied, still looking down at the copier.

Catching me flatfooted, I frowned.

"I hope you didn't do that because of me."

She finally turned to look up at my eyes. "I did it because it was the right thing to do for me." After a pause she continued, "Shall we try to finish lunch today? I'll swap it for the dinner you owe me."

My head jerked at the unexpected offer. I looked down at her breasts.

"I . . . I have an engagement, for lunch," I said, looking at her nipples. "And I'm going to take the rest of the afternoon off to start a quiet weekend, alone, to think things through. I think I deserve it. It's difficult for me to concentrate on work—especially today—and it's affecting my attitude toward some very important people in my life."

"Alone? So you want to be away from people that care about you at a time like this?" Liz sighed, shaking her head. "You still like this self-punishment thing, don't you, Eric? You're just stressed. Why don't you sweat a good workout at the gym and punish that buff body of yours and tone those sexy abs for me?" she suggested, sticking her tongue between her teeth.

I had to be honest with her. She obliged me to be.

"Call it a blind date—a mini-diversion. But please, don't be jealous—it's not serious. I thought you were really going out last night, so I . . . I had to compensate." Then, I forced it out of me. "I don't think it would be a bad idea if we date other people."
I walked into the copier room to stand closer to her, to feel her body warm mine. Liz looked disappointed while I closed the copier room door behind us. Her eyes sparkled as she stared up at me.

"Anyone I know?"

"I don't know her. We've been doing this . . . this phone-thing for a few weeks, now. She suggested we meet so I consented. But I must confess I'm apprehensive as hell about it. For me it's like trying to satisfy a seven-year itch—without the marriage."

"Good for you," she spoke slowly. "A blind date."

"It's more like a rendezvous."

Liz's grin faded, her warm hand cascading down my chest. She turned away and was back to work shuffling papers.

"Before you leave I need you to approve the paperwork for our replacement copier. We have to schedule the delivery soon or we'll miss the vendor's promotional discount."

"Sure," I said, sighing with relief to conduct real business. "Let me take a look at it."

"And you'll have to tell me all about your date, okay?" she asked, quickly glancing back to me with a gleam in her eyes.

Was she starting to cry?

"If I'm still alive," I tried to joke. Suddenly the heartache of the past year stabbed my chest. My smile ran from my cheeks as I blurted, "Damn it, Liz, where were you eight years ago?"

Without blinking, she quietly answered, "Looking for you."

And with her busy work completed, she gathered up her originals and copies, walked passed me, opened the door, and bolted out. I couldn't say anything and returned to my desk—to crowd a whole workday into the morning.

Time seemed to pass rapidly to midday. Thankfully Liz was all business and did speak to me to review the requisition for the new copier. Just before noon I locked my desk and bid farewell to the early end of my workweek. Before leaving I had to see her. Deep down I knew I could let her sway me to skip my lunchtime encounter. It wouldn't take much from her to change my mind. Just seeing her. After grabbing my jacket and umbrella and stuffing my cell phone in the right pocket, I walked past her vacant workstation. My heart sank like an anchor. She had already gone to lunch—no goodbyes.

"Eric? Would you like to join Melia and me for lunch?" Chelsea sweetly asked, stopping at Liz's station. "We thought a few friends could help pass the time, today."

"Why, thank you, Chelsea," I said, looking at her sweet face "And thank Melia for me, too. You two are very special, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But I do have other plans. Rain check?" I had to turn to the wet windows to avoid eye contact with her.

"Of course," Chelsea said, reaching around my waist for a long, warm hug. "This is also from Melia. You enjoy your lunch, then."

"Thank you, again," I said, patting her back, staring at Liz's empty desk.

Our cooling off period was to begin after all.

I left the building on a mission, first for my car, then out for the avenue—to confront anonymity. It would just take a few minutes to drive the short distance to the motel. Upon arriving in the parking lot, my shoulders flinched at the dictionary definition of a fleabag. I hesitated but took a deep breath, exited my car, and sauntered up to the motel door with the tarnished brass "2" nailed loosely below the peephole. After knocking quietly I noticed the door was open.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

No answer.

I gently pushed the door open to reveal an unlit, unoccupied room with the anticipated amenities: a lumpy bed (at least with fresh linens), bath and commode, black phone, small table, and a portable television.

"Hello?" I softly asked, again.

The room smelled respectably clean. The only "artwork" hung on the far wall, a faded picture of a strange, eerie looking, bald harlequin in a diamond faceted clown suit. He wore a black mask, glowered vacant eyes, and sneered with undefined, white teeth. I figured the motel owner probably wanted a portrait of the Joker-card to display some deck-of-cards-motif, but he apparently settled for some terrific bargain at a weekend rummage sale.

So my secret phone slut now turned into another type of tease by stepping out—or did she invite me here to sta