She knocked on the big glass door to his office, looking at her translucent reflection on it. He looked up from his laptop and her sight painted a smile on his face. She was an artist and he was an entrepreneur.
She came inside and they shook hands. He admired her dark red trouser with bold black checks, which looked very fashionable paired with a white poet blouse. She admired him too, but silently, as he stood tall in his blue suit with white pinstripes.
From the high-rise office they were in, they could see twinkling lights on the road below. It was late in the evening – the time when birds return home after a long day at work to be in the company of those they love. She sat down on the big leather sofa and he leaned against the table. They were immersed in each other's eyes, a thousand shades of emotions between them. A bond that had never been made was aching in their hearts.
He asked her how she was and she said she was fine but he knew she wasn't. Her hair was too properly done and he knew she was naturally too carefree for that. If her hair isn't messed up, then her mind is.
She asked him how he was and he said happy. She looked at him as if he had offended her. She threw another question at him. ‘How could you be happy?’
He glanced away from her. ‘I thought about you a lot’, he mumbled managing a reply.
His answer didn't explain anything in words, but his expressions had told a story. She knew that he had missed her – her breath, that had fallen on his neck; her shoulders, that had felt his lips; and her hands, that had known his hair.
She reached her hand out to him and he took it in his own. Their gazes intertwined, and they moved closer to each other. He closed his eyes and leaned forward to kiss her. Nothing. He opened his eyes to see that she was stopping herself.
‘This isn't right.’ She appealed.
‘But this is only an expression of how we feel.’ He resolved.
‘I can't do this.’ She said.
He got up from the sofa and she instantly pulled him back. With a thud as he landed, his head hit the wall.
She threw herself on him, kissing his face, his neck and his chest. She was nourishing herself as a traveler lost in a desert had found an oasis. And when she paused, he complimented her love by biting her ears and kissing her nose before settling on her lips for a French kiss.
And that was it. They bonded like rain bonds with earth. On that large leather sofa, they made each other comfortable in a mutual embrace. The wooden floor beneath them was partially covered with a red trouser with bold black checks, a blue suit with white pinstripes, a poet blouse, a white shirt, and some footwear.
His hands worked their way from her chin to her neck to her chest to her back. Her hands touched his masculine shoulders and his nape. His hands reached her waist while he kissed her clavicle. Her lips reached his Adams apple.
And then it happened. She asked him to take it to the end. He lifted her with his strong arms and she parted her gates open. He stiffened his muscles and slowly lodged himself in her. She gasped.
As the clock ticked away, a replica of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss, witnessed two lovers engaged in passionate lovemaking. His pelvis thrusting behind her back, her buttocks slapping against his thighs and their tongues tasting each other’s flavours.
After they were done, they lay on the floor, motionless for most of the time, silent for the other. They held each other's hand. She had her eyes closed and he had his eyes open. Their faces were touching as they felt each other's breath.
At that moment, filled with love, as they spent the remaining hours of togetherness in the privacy of that high-rise office, they both thought how life would have turned out different if they had not married other people and instead married each other.