Ok, so I might have said something. About being different and being spontaneous. I told him I thought we were in a rut, me and Ed, and I meant we needed to do more stuff and go out more. I’d thought we could eat out sometime or drive over to the next town and go dancing there and stay overnight in a motel – not one of those cheap ten dollar a shot places, the carpet sticky with spilled beer and the air smelling of smokes, and the bed all used and sagging. No, I was meaning somewhere fancy. I don’t think Ed really understood.
We were up and dressed this morning for work same as always and he came to me in the kitchen, came at me from behind, and he started kissing my neck and running his hands down the shape of me. I’d just poured his coffee and his toast was cooling on his plate and there was maybe ten minutes till we had to leave.
Ed said he wanted me and he wanted me right now and his voice was breathless and low. I laughed and I thought he was just messing about. ‘Right now and right here,’ he said, and he cupped my breasts and held them like they were his own.
Then he turned and he swept everything on the table to the floor. One wide sweep of his arm. Cups and plates and bowls, and the full pot of hot coffee, and a dish of butter, and a glass jar of apricot conserve, and a jug of milk. The whole lot. It was like something in a movie. You see that sometimes: the boss in the office and he wants the secretary, right there and right in that moment, and he sweeps everything from his desk so they got someplace to do it. And then the camera distracts you from the stuff on the floor with shots of his hands on her breasts and she’s got her mouth open and her neck and her body arched and she’s making a noise like she’s never had it so good.
There’s two things that really I don’t get about that when it happens. For starters if it was me that was the secretary, I’d be thinking about who was going to tidy everything back onto the desk when the boss was done with his hands up my skirt; and second, I’d be a little unhappy about him laying me back on the desk – it wouldn’t really be what I’d call comfortable. Maybe it’d be ok for him laying on top of me, but I’d have the hardwood desk at my back and the full weight of him pressing down on me.
So when Ed swept everything off the kitchen table to the floor – like he’d seen happen in a movie or on tv – and he was undoing the belt and buttons on his trousers, well I was just stood there looking white and disbelieving. Then I found some words.
‘What the fuck, Ed?’
He advanced towards me, thinking to win me back with kisses. I pushed him away.
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Look at the bloody mess. And those bowls, I really like those bowls, and you can’t get them no more. What do you think you were doing for chrissakes?’
He stood there with his trousers down to his knees and looking a little crestfallen, if you get my meaning. And he said something about being spontaneous. ‘Like you said I should,’ he said. ‘Being a little different, and not the same.’
I said he was a dick and I said he was a fucking dick. And like that we were a picture I won’t easily forget.
Patricia Ann McNair 
Ok, so I might have said something. About being different and being spontaneous. I told him I thought we were in a rut, me and Ed, and I meant we needed to do more stuff and go out more. I’d thought we could eat out sometime or drive over to the next town and go dancing there and stay overnight in a motel – not one of those cheap ten dollar a shot places, the carpet sticky with spilled beer and the air smelling of smokes, and the bed all used and sagging. No, I was meaning somewhere fancy. I don’t think Ed really understood.
We were up and dressed this morning for work same as always and he came to me in the kitchen, came at me from behind, and he started kissing my neck and running his hands down the shape of me. I’d just poured his coffee and his toast was cooling on his plate and there was maybe ten minutes till we had to leave.
Ed said he wanted me and he wanted me right now and his voice was breathless and low. I laughed and I thought he was just messing about. ‘Right now and right here,’ he said, and he cupped my breasts and held them like they were his own.
Then he turned and he swept everything on the table to the floor. One wide sweep of his arm. Cups and plates and bowls, and the full pot of hot coffee, and a dish of butter, and a glass jar of apricot conserve, and a jug of milk. The whole lot. It was like something in a movie. You see that sometimes: the boss in the office and he wants the secretary, right there and right in that moment, and he sweeps everything from his desk so they got someplace to do it. And then the camera distracts you from the stuff on the floor with shots of his hands on her breasts and she’s got her mouth open and her neck and her body arched and she’s making a noise like she’s never had it so good.
There’s two things that really I don’t get about that when it happens. For starters if it was me that was the secretary, I’d be thinking about who was going to tidy everything back onto the desk when the boss was done with his hands up my skirt; and second, I’d be a little unhappy about him laying me back on the desk – it wouldn’t really be what I’d call comfortable. Maybe it’d be ok for him laying on top of me, but I’d have the hardwood desk at my back and the full weight of him pressing down on me.
So when Ed swept everything off the kitchen table to the floor – like he’d seen happen in a movie or on tv – and he was undoing the belt and buttons on his trousers, well I was just stood there looking white and disbelieving. Then I found some words.
‘What the fuck, Ed?’
He advanced towards me, thinking to win me back with kisses. I pushed him away.
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Look at the bloody mess. And those bowls, I really like those bowls, and you can’t get them no more. What do you think you were doing for chrissakes?’
He stood there with his trousers down to his knees and looking a little crestfallen, if you get my meaning. And he said something about being spontaneous. ‘Like you said I should,’ he said. ‘Being a little different, and not the same.’
I said he was a dick and I said he was a fucking dick. And like that we were a picture I won’t easily forget.