Old friends laugh and reminisce over scrumptious lunch and fizz.

In habitual fashion, conversations bemoan husbands consumed by work or golf.  As if that drift apart was inevitable.

My fingers lightly brush the blemish upon my neck with memories to the contrary.  You sat in our bed watching me dress. Eyes deliciously intense, imagining the opposite.  

My departure was met by the grip of my wrists as you pinned me against the wall.

Your touch still marks my skin, the sodden wet mess between my thighs a delicious reminder.   

“So, why were you late?” came the question.

 “Golf!” I smirk.