The Other Desk

I didn't plan to kiss Mark Chen in the supply closet. It just happened. One minute I was reaching for a box of printer toner, the next his hand was on my hip and his mouth was on mine and I was thinking about how his wife had brought cupcakes to the office last week. Red velvet. My favorite.

I should stop. I know I should stop.

His fingers curl into the fabric of my blouse, pulling me closer. The shelf digs into my back. A staple remover jabs my shoulder blade. None of it matters. What matters is the sound he makes when I bite his lower lip. A low, strangled thing that vibrates through my teeth and settles somewhere between my thighs.

"Elena," he whispers. My name sounds different in his mouth. Like a secret. Like a question he's afraid to ask.

"We can't be long." My own voice surprises me. Steady. Practical. As if I do this every day. As if I haven't been imagining this exact moment for the last six months, ever since he leaned over my desk to point out a formatting error and I caught the scent of his cologne. Sandalwood and something sharper. Ginger, maybe.

He kisses my neck. I let him.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead. Someone walks past the door. Their footsteps echo in the hallway, and we freeze, pressed together in the dark, breathing into each other's mouths. The footsteps fade. Mark exhales.

"Tonight," he says. Not a question.

"Your place or mine?"

He laughs. A short, nervous sound. "I can't do mine. Sarah's mother is visiting."

Sarah. Her name lands between us like a stone. I should feel guilty. I do feel guilty. But not enough. That's the ugly truth of it. Not nearly enough.

"Hotel then." I say it before I can think better of it. "The Grand on 5th. I'll book a room."

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark. Serious. "You sure?"

No. I'm not sure. I'm married to a man who leaves Post-it notes on the bathroom mirror telling me I'm beautiful, who rubs my feet after I work twelve-hour shifts, who still opens doors for me after eight years. I'm sure about nothing except the way my skin burns where Mark touched me.

"Yes."

He kisses me again. Quicker this time. A seal on a deal. Then he straightens his tie, runs a hand through his hair, and opens the door. Light floods in. I blink.

"See you at the meeting," he says, and walks away like nothing happened.

I stay in the supply closet for another thirty seconds. My hands are shaking. My lips feel swollen. I press my palm to my chest and feel my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for.

So why does it feel like I'm already falling?

---

The meeting is interminable. Quarterly projections. Market analysis. I sit across from Mark and watch him take notes, his pen moving across the page in neat, efficient strokes. He doesn't look at me. Not once. His wife's mother is visiting. He has a wife. I have a husband. We are both terrible people.

Janet from accounting drones on about revenue streams. I nod at appropriate intervals. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from my husband: *Pick up wine on the way home?*

I type back: *Sure. Late meeting tonight. Don't wait up.*

The lie slides out smooth as butter. I've been practicing.

When the meeting finally ends, I gather my things and head for the elevator. Mark catches up to me in the lobby. We stand side by side, not touching, watching the numbers tick down.

"Room 417," I say. "Eight o'clock."

"I'll be there."

The elevator doors open. A group of interns piles out, laughing. I step inside. Mark doesn't follow. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching me disappear.

---

At 7:45, I'm standing outside room 417 with a key card in my hand and a knot in my stomach. I tell myself I can still leave. I can go home, pour a glass of wine, crawl into bed next to my husband, and pretend none of this happened. The thought should comfort me. It doesn't.

I swipe the card. The lock clicks. I push the door open.

The room is generic. Beige walls. White sheets. A painting of a sailboat that nobody chose. I set my bag on the desk and check my phone. No messages from Mark. No messages from my husband.

I'm pacing when the knock comes.

Three quick taps.

I open the door.

He's changed out of his work clothes. Dark jeans, a gray sweater. He looks younger. Nervous. He's holding a bottle of wine.

"I didn't know what you liked," he says.

"Anything works."

He steps inside. The door closes behind him. We stand there, two feet apart, the silence stretching between us like a wire.

"I don't do this," he says.

"Neither do I."

"Then why are we here?"

I don't have an answer. Or maybe I have too many. Maybe I'm here because my husband looks at me like I'm already whole, and I don't know how to tell him I'm cracked in places he can't see. Maybe I'm here because Mark looks at me like I'm a question he needs to solve. Maybe I'm here because I'm tired of being good.

"Does it matter?" I ask.

He sets the wine down. Takes a step closer. Then another.

"No," he says. "I guess it doesn't."

His hand finds my waist. His mouth finds mine. And I stop thinking about reasons.