freepik

Yours, Part I: The Call

An office knock, a live line home — and the moment a marriage changes temperature

The pen drags a fine groove through thick paper. Nib scratches. Clock ticks. Air vents sigh. My wrist aches from the signatures.

Two knuckles on wood. Sharp. Close.

“Not now,” I say, eyes on the line, pen hovering.

Latch clicks. Vanilla edges in, sticky-sweet over leather and paper.

“Julian,” she says. “Quarterlies.”

“Leave them. Door.” The pen touches down again, a line that doesn’t want to straighten.

No footsteps. The door seals. A faint vacuum thump. Fabric whispers. She comes into my peripheral — dark skirt, bare knee, stack of pages held loose.

“I think they need you now.”

“Roxanne.” My name for her comes out dry. “Don’t.”

She sits on the edge of the desk. Wood shifts under her weight. Her thigh radiates warmth I don’t want. The cheap vanilla climbs higher, mixes with ink and toner.

“You’ve been hard to find,” she says, fingertip sliding my lapel seam. Nail gloss flashes under the late sun.

“This is finished.” My chair creaks as I lean away. Not far enough. The edge of her hair brushes…