Thank God It's Friday.

It was the knock that came from the bedroom door, that chain of relentless rappings of just one set of knuckles against the hardwood grain that stained the entrance to his two-bedroom palace up the third set of stairs; it rang in his ears and throughout those half-asleep in that apartment complex with walls like parchment.

William's Thursday nights were always hungry.

He'd been waiting in the living room, laying sideways across his suede, stained couch with his chin propped up by his wrist. He could hardly stand it; she was in everything he saw, and yet he knew that he had to wait it out or run the risk of looking too desperate. However, William was very desperate - he couldn't hide it, even if he tried - and his self-respect was dwindling with every Friday he had to spend without her.

But when he heard that knock, it was more than just the sound; it was the way it felt, raking up and down his spine like waves that scraped along the shore.

William had never seen the ocean, but she made him feel like he had the world; and it was all heated and wrapped up in his arms as soon as he opened that door.

He leaped up from his place on the couch, tucked in with the stains he took pride in, and nearly had a heart attack as he stumbled over his own two feet. He barely made it to the door before he fell apart completely.

It was when he saw her face that he felt that immediate sense of relief. She smiled, her pearly whites bright like the Christmas lights strung all around downtown Chicago.

Neither of them had to say anything at all before they had their lips attached; they were sewn together and, at the seams, there was love.

She was shoved up against the door, the whole building hearing that slam. Even his neighbors knew the motions by heart; the shoving and the slamming of the door, just before the metal-on-metal squeal of all three locks being turned and snapped just above their heads. Everyone heard them, but no one could see; that was their secret, and everyone knew to keep it that way.

William had his hands pressed up against the door, palms face down and seamless with the grain. Her hands were everywhere; one was in his hair, another just between the crook of his neck and the bone of his chin.

There were instants where neither of them knew what they were doing. In fact, how could they, when they had lovers to call their own and promises to fulfill - none of those promises including each other.

But they just couldn't keep away.

It wasn't in their chemical makeup to play things safe.

The chase of crossing the line was what had forced them together in the first place. In the beginning, it was simply the feeling of getting away with something they were never meant to have, to own something that they couldn't call their own. In the beginning, it was the game and how well they could stretch themselves to play it. They thought they could keep their secrets from the world.

That was the beginning.

By now, they were nearing the end.

It wasn't fun anymore. It was just that craving, that hunger that scratched at their insides and made them bleed if they didn't satisfy it. With their hands in their hair and their clothing on William's bedroom floor, it was nothing but their romance building and building until they had to let that fire die.

Their ending was every Thursday night as they laid in each others arms, goodbyes hopelessly flowing from their lips that had to let go. Their ending was in the way she rolled out of bed, out of the sheets that clung to her with his sweat, and followed her trail of clothes to the door like breadcrumbs.

Friday was their end.

And their ending was inevitable.