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The Next Move

"It's you or me," I finally say. "One of us has to make the next move."

Jenna looks into my eyes and wets her lips with her tongue. I have a pretty good idea what that means.

We're sitting on the edge of a Motel 6 bed. The room is clean enough, but it still feels seedy, with its slight odor of disinfectant.

I touch her cheek. She rests her hand, the one with the wedding ring, on the inside of my thigh. I can feel the warmth through my suit pants.

I move in for a kiss. She pulls away.

We had kissed and groped each other in the supply room earlier this morning, which led to our lunch-hour rendezvous. This moment had been building for months. Now I'm confused.

"I don't want to be the kind of person who cheats on her husband." Her nose turns red.

"I know," I say. Her body shakes. I hold her. She tightens her grip on my thigh.

"Do you want me to kiss you?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "But please don't."

I have to be strong. No means no. But her hand is still on my thigh.

She's breathing deeply, as if she's trying to catch her breath. I lift her hand from my thigh and raise it to my lips. This should be my moment of gallantry, but I kiss her hand too passionately.

"I wish things were different," she says.

I stand up. "We should go." I hold out both my hands.

Her eyes drift to the bulge in my pants. "Yes, we should," she says. But she remains seated on the edge of the bed.

Story by:

Wayne Scheer

wvscheer@aol.com

submitted at 10:42pm

8 July 2009