Fiction

The lovers (short fiction)

A glimpse from under her lashes is all it takes. He knows that look, what she’s thinking. He glances around, the room crowded with colleagues, friends and family.  There’s no chance she means it. Not here, not at her own engagement party, surely. Before he knows what is happening, he moves toward her, as if she’s reeling him in.

When he reaches her, they stand face to face and engage in banal banter, sipping champagne. Her hand slips to his shoulder and the current jolts them both. Resistance is futile, he thinks. She nods in the direction of the bathroom. His eyes say yes.

Trying not to watch her sashay her way to the door, he takes another sip. He checks out the room again. Has anyone noticed them? He sees his wife, she’s half-drunk already and in the corner gossiping with her best friend. They’ll be there for the rest of the night. He turns, feels safe, moves to the door of the bathroom.

He taps the door with their signal: rap-rap-rap, knock knock. A clunk as the door is unlocked. He opens it and sidles in. She’s ready for him. They kiss, urgently, with a passion he’s never felt from his cold, frigid wife. She’s undoing his belt. He guides her to the wall, her legs wrap around his waist.

They’re almost finished, drunken giggles interrupt their pleasure as the bathroom door opens. Then a gasp and shouting, ‘Oh my god, you fucken bastard!’ He knows the voice, even slurred from too much prosecco, so he doesn’t need to twist around to see who’s caught them. Instead he looks at her, the one he loves, the one he’s inside. She grins at him. Doesn’t even have the grace to blush.

 

Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash
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