Crossing my mind

J stroked my thigh, and I told him I was tired. The argument lasted 45 minutes. In bed, anger seeped out of my dreams and all over the pillows. I woke up sweaty and horny.

At work, New Blood joined the department. He’s young, tall and fit. I take him for an induction coffee, pour more milk into my (skinny, today) latte, and laugh when he says, ‘Do you want some coffee with that?’

He knows things some people don't know, like who Spencer Perceval was. He reminds me of J that way, the J in his university pictures, before us. The J I sometimes wish I could have met back then, before the jobs and responsibilities.

I’m tasked to train New Blood one-to-one, and wish I was wearing more than just Impulse. Bored, he looks up my picture on the intranet. It doesn’t do you justice, he says.

I meet J for dinner: a glass of red for me, a can of Sprite for him, with olives.
What did I do this time? he asks.
Nothing, I spit. Now, it is something, and silence takes the unoccupied chair.

New Blood needs help with his work. I bend over beside him, experiencing guilt and lust on a loop, and know, deep down, it’s all a head rush, once I stand upright.

I get home to find J asleep on the couch. His famous soup simmers on the cooker. I cover his face with kisses and he wakes, pissed off.