Erik Tomblin
Artwork by Marcia Borell

She clicks the compact shut, smiling to herself. Looking in the mirror on her office door, she tucks her blouse in tight then slides her hands down her hips as if trying to smooth the fabric of her skirt. It’s leather of course, but the feel of her hands reassures her that all is in order. Has it gotten hotter in this office? It always seems unbearable at this time of day. This justifies undoing an extra button on her blouse. The beginning swell of her breasts is unveiled. Just enough.

She gives her desk one last look to ensure all is in order for tomorrow and exits her office. She smiles at her secretary; she never reciprocates a greeting or farewell verbally except with clients. This would be unnecessary, though she isn’t sure why.

Voices from around the corner signal show time. Her black knee-high boots announce her arrival on the hardwood floor of the lobby. The steady beat slows and softens imperceptibly, but the trained eye can see the difference in her gait. The three men standing around the empty receptionist’s desk are unaware of the change, but each sprouts the tiniest beads of sweat along their brows. One bites his lower lip while another whispers “Damn!” The third, hypnotized by the deliberate sway of her walk, can only stare.

Her distracted look is incredibly realistic, but falters as she passes, at which time she allows herself another smile. A careful smile; they cause wrinkles. She catches her own reflection in the glass of the doors and lets the smile linger. It looks good on her, she confesses. But it disappears quickly in the solitude of the parking deck.

On the drive home she steals glances in her well-positioned mirrors of men watching her. She nudges her skirt up just a little more, though only the ones in larger vehicles can appreciate the gesture. Still, it’s mostly for her. She runs her slim fingers along the line of her thigh from her hemline to the thick of her calf. A smooth ride, unblemished. She lowers the window to let the autumn air cool her down.

At home she parks outside the garage and walks in through the front door. She could pull into the garage and go in unnoticed, but what fun is that? She can’t see anyone watching, but they are. The twitching curtains in the windows tell her. Sweaty hands pull them back just far enough for a peek. She fans her neck with her thin, flat purse, opens the front door, and slips inside.

He is sitting in the den, sipping scotch and watching the evening news. They don’t speak yet, but he hears her turn down the air conditioner. He knows the routine well enough now. Five minutes. The ice in his glass sounds like wind chimes when he raises his hand again to drink. He could never decide if it was the fear or the anticipation that turned him on.

In the bedroom she lets her clothes slip to the floor and admires herself in the mirror. Behind her is their bed, and behind that another mirror to where her gaze drifts. Those were the curves that sent most men spiraling into a daydream of lust and arrhythmic heart rates. Those were the legs they saw wrapping around themselves. Those were the hips they gripped in a feverish rush of imagination. She knows this, oh so well.

He walks in behind her with the strap in his hand. Their eyes meet in the mirror in front of her and she feels his hand glide across the scars on her back. She stifles a shiver and turns to lean in close to him. She whispers something in his ear, then moves to the bed and offers herself up to the strap.

He stays in one area, as always and as instructed. The badly bruised and scarred skin of her upper back stands in stark contrast to the rest of her. He is reminded of a relief map of the Rocky Mountains where the rest of her is a rolling plain of snow.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to because he’s finished his drink and he’ll soon be finished with this part of the routine.

Then she would let him do what the others can only dream about.

End