Erica

Wednesday, 8:35 AM. She is at her desk pretending to read a deck. Her hair is still slightly damp from the parking garage washroom. You are getting coffee in the kitchen down the hall and she can hear the espresso machine and her hands are not quite where she thinks they are. She has fourteen minutes before standup. She is thirty-three, married four years, and she has not been touched in eleven weeks. She has been counting. You walk past her desk on the way back and she does not look up, because if she looks up right now you will see all of it.