This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
Every Monday for six months at eight o’clock in the evening, David Willoughby knocked at apartment 15B. And every Monday, a nude, flush-faced Amy Patterson threw open the door and pulled him in.
Their coupling could be swift, without a hello—hungry and hard against the wall—impatient hands scratching and pawing at sweaty flesh. Or it could be slow, in her double bed with kisses warm and slippery and orgasms gentle and rocking. But always it would last until their breathing hitched and their worn-out bodies shuddered.
Every Monday until this one.
At midnight, Amy slipped into her robe and admitted to herself that David wasn’t coming, her body and soul aching with his absence.
On Wednesday, Amy, wearing a threadbare T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, opened the door to a solemn David. She didn’t tug him inside. He didn’t shove her against the wall.
“I won’t be coming again, Amy. It’s over.”
“I thought you loved me, David.”
“We had sex on Mondays. That’s all it was.”
He closed the door as he left. No smile. No kiss. No touch.
Unbearable. Amy needed more. A goodbye hug, at least. She counted aloud. “One. Two. Three.”
She peeled the T-shirt from her heavy breasts and tossed it to a chair. David should be at the elevator.
“Four. Five. Six.”
Amy’s sweatpants puddled to the floor, cradling her cotton panties. She stepped away from them and toward the open window. David should be walking through the lobby.
“Seven. Eight. Nine.”
A brilliant sun in a lapis sky outlined Amy’s torso as hot, summer air slapped her unclothed frame. David should be exiting, turning left toward the parking garage.
She jumped effortlessly—arms outstretched, ready to embrace. But no one was there to receive her.
David had turned right.
Copyright © 2004 by Desdmona.