The office is almost empty, I know because I’ve checked the time three times in the last ten minutes.
8:17 PM.
8:21 PM.
8:24 PM.
The cleaning staff have already passed my section twice, even the security lights have switched on outside. Everybody has gone home, everybody except me. I stare at the stack of documents beside the photocopier and wonder if this job is trying to kill me.
A month ago, I didn’t even know how to use half the machines in this office, now I’m standing here arguing with a photocopier like it’s my stubborn firstborn. The machine groans, flashes red, then stops again.
I close my eyes, count to five, open them, and still red.
Wonderful.
Maybe it can sense desperation, maybe machines enjoy embarrassing people, especially women who spent fifteen years being somebody’s wife instead of building a career.
I laugh softly to myself, not because it’s funny, but because if I don’t laugh, I might cry.
The copier flashes again, I press another button.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
At this point we’re both angry. I fold my arms.
“Okay. You’ve won.”
The words leave my mouth before I realize I’ve spoken out loud.
“Talking to office equipment now?”
The voice startles me making me turn too quickly, and there he is. Standing at the doorway is my boss. The only person who seems completely comfortable in this building no matter the time of day.
He glances at the machine, then at me, and then he smiles. The kind of smile that makes people unconsciously smile back. I hate that I smile back.
“Long day?” he asks.
I look at the documents, then at the copier, and then at him.
“Long month.”
He laughs, and somehow that makes me laugh too. A genuine laugh, the first genuine laugh I’ve had all day, maybe all week.
He walks over to the machine.
“Let’s see what’s troubling you.”
The photocopier.
Not me.
The photocopier.
I step aside to give him space, the room suddenly feels smaller.
Maybe because it actually is.
Maybe because we’re the only two people left on the floor.
Maybe because loneliness does strange things to the mind.
He leans forward, presses a few buttons, opens one compartment, and then another. His shoulder brushes mine, just slightly. But my entire body notices, every single part of it notices.
What is wrong with me? It’s a shoulder, people have shoulders, people brush against each other every day. This is completely normal. Yet my pulse betrays me so I look away.
“Found the problem.”
His voice is closer now, much closer.
I glance up, big mistake. He’s standing right beside me, very close.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne.
Close enough that I suddenly remember I am a woman.
Not just a mother.
Not just a wife.
Not just somebody trying to survive a divorce.
A woman.
I then realize something that makes me uncomfortable. I can’t remember the last time anybody looked at me, really looked at me. Not because they needed something, and not because they expected something, just looked.
The machine starts working again, pages begin sliding out, problem solved. He should leave now, I should leave now, instead neither of us moves.
The room grows quiet again, painfully quiet. I become aware of every sound, the copier, my breathing, his breathing, my heartbeat, especially my heartbeat.
It’s ridiculous, I’m almost forty years old not sixteen. Not twenty but almost forty. Old enough to know better, old enough to recognize danger, old enough to walk away, yet my feet refuse to move. He then does something unexpected.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He just looks at me with so much kindness, concern, and understanding. The kind of look that comes from somebody who knows exactly what you’ve been through.
The divorce.
The loneliness.
The humiliation.
Starting life over.
The fear.
He knows all of it.
Maybe that’s why this feels dangerous, not because he’s attractive (though he is), not because he’s successful (though he is), but because he sees me and lately that has become a rare thing.
The silence stretches, neither of us says a word. Then he reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. A simple, small and almost innocent gesture, yet my breath catches immediately.
The room suddenly feels too warm, too small, too intimate. I should step back, I know I should but I don’t. His hand lingers for a second, then another. I feel my stomach tighten, not with fear but with something else. Something I’ve spent years pretending no longer exists. Desire.
The realization shocks me because I haven’t allowed myself to think about desire in a very long time. Marriage became routine years ago, then it became distance, then silence, then lawyers, then paperwork, and then separate lives.
Somewhere along the way I stopped being touched, stopped being wanted, stopped being seen and now one simple gesture feels powerful enough to shake me.
I should leave, I know that, instead I stay and somehow that becomes its own answer.
His eyes search mine, almost asking a question. One he doesn’t say aloud and one I don’t answer aloud because some questions don’t need words.
The distance between us disappears, slowly and carefully, like we’re both aware that one more step changes everything. His hand finds mine, my heart nearly stops, and for one impossible moment the entire world narrows to that single point of contact.
The office disappears, the divorce disappears, the stress disappears, and even time seems to disappear. Then he leans forward and I don’t move away.
I know exactly what is happening, I know exactly what this means, and I know exactly how complicated this is, yet I remain where I am.
His lips meet mine, softly and tentatively, as though he’s giving me every opportunity to stop this. Maybe I should, maybe I should have already, but after years of feeling invisible, years of feeling unwanted, years of being somebody’s responsibility instead of somebody’s desire…I don’t.
The kiss deepens, not rushed, not reckless, just two lonely people standing in the ruins of old lives. For a moment I allow myself to feel it, the warmth, the comfort, the possibility, and then reality crashes back into me.
My daughter.
My faith.
My marriage.
The divorce papers that aren’t finalized.
The family.
The consequences.
The questions.
So many questions.
Am I cheating?
Can you cheat on a marriage that is already dead?
Does a signature end a marriage?
Or does the love ending come first?
What would people say?
What would my church say?
What would my mother say?
What would my daughter think years from now?
And perhaps the question that terrifies me most…
What if this isn’t loneliness?
What if I actually feel something?
His hand remains in mine, the kiss lingers and my mind becomes a battlefield. One voice tells me to stop, immediately.
Walk away.
Go home.
Pray.
Forget this happened.
Another voice asks a question I’ve been avoiding for months.
When was the last time I chose myself?
Not as a wife.
Not as a mother.
Not as somebody’s daughter.
Myself.
For years my life belonged to everyone else.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t stepped away.
Maybe that’s why I still haven’t opened my eyes.
Maybe that’s why my heart keeps saying stay while my conscience keeps saying leave.
And then, standing there in that tiny photocopy room, I realize the cruelest part of all. This isn’t happening with a stranger, or a colleague, or a man I met yesterday. No, life would never make it that simple.
Because the man kissing me…the man holding my hand…the man making me question everything I thought I believed…
…is my husband’s younger brother.