A Wrong Turn

Nothing like this was supposed to happen. It was an innocent offer to help, nothing more than that. He was low on staff, I was available. She was not around. I should have stayed home, stayed in my room, stayed in my bed.

It was late, after last call, and everyone had gone home. Except for the two of us; we were cleaning up, that was all, nothing more, nothing less. A glass shattered on the floor, my hand bled from a deep cut. He was there, almost immediately, my hand in his hand and a rag to clean the wound.

I'm not sure how it happened, but it did.

Our lips met - it was a clash of loneliness, of longing, of a distinct harmony humming in my ears. It was soft, but rough. It was sweet, but bitter. It was everything, and it was nothing. It should have meant nothing, it should have ended there.

But it didn't.

Fingers tangled in tresses of hair and scraped along the flesh of backs. Sweat glistened on bodies, guilty tears welled up at the corners of eyes, but it wasn't enough. He was inside of me, I was full of him. It was beautiful - wrong, but beautiful, all the same. Maybe it was beautiful because it was wrong.

It lasted for too long - the ecstasy and agony of the act lingered in the air. Lips brushed against lips and hips and thighs. Marks were left, branding the two of us as guilty souls. As two individuals, desperately in need of affection and attention and resurrection from the rut we had worked ourselves into.

It was beautiful. It was wrong.

There was no kiss goodbye. I escaped with what little dignity I still had.

I knew we wouldn't speak of it again. I would be silent - wanting, needing, craving, wishing, wanting him.

But we would never tell, because it was wrong.

It was wrong. It was beautiful.