Two desks away

There’s nothing really special about him. Not much beautiful, not much smiley, not much talkative. Just a plain boy, doing his work right and quietly. Even not noticeable, for most of the time.

One hour ago, I was sitting on his lap, his lips all over my neck, his fingertips fondling gently my waist, an overwhelming look on his beautiful green eyes. Now, while I drink this soda to get a bit less drunk, I feel guilty about having those two unnecessary last beers that put me off of my feet. Is there anything else to feel guilty about?

A new day it’s dawning, I’m smelling of sweat and too kissed skin. He’s being kind, bringing me soda, waiting until I put myself together. Is he being kind because he wants me right again to go on from where we stopped? Or because he would be too ashamed on Monday if he let me here alone, at the end of this party?

It doesn’t matter. I never ask questions which it’s answers could possibly hurt me somehow. It’s better to call a cab, go home, spend my Sunday in bed, sober up for Monday. After all, he works just two desks away from me.

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