The door to the flat slams shut, and the crescendo of high-heeled footsteps heralds her entry. When he sees her barge into the living room, he barely says hello before she kicks off her shoes and throws her handbag onto the couch.
She flops onto the corner-sofa with a heavy sigh and un-clips her sandy blonde hair, letting it spill over her shoulders. Finally, as he watches with a bemused but patient smile, she takes off her blazer and stretches out, leaving her in just tights, a grey pencil skirt, and a white blouse. Looking at him, she seems to remember herself and gives him a tired smile.
He laughs. "Tough day?"
"Don't start me," she returns the laugh, though hers is laced with frustration.
He reaches across from his pillow beside the crackling fireplace and grabs a bottle of red wine and a glass, pouring it and passing it up to her. She mouths a silent 'thank you' and downs the glass in one go.
"Still doing office moves then?" he asks as she sits the empty glass down. He refills it as she talks.
"Yeah, along with everyone else's job," she throws her hands up. "What's the point in making me a supervisor and then telling me how to do my job anyway – and they tell me the worst way to do it. I could run the entire company better –" she stops to take another glass of wine from him, "- thank you – I could it better than the idiots at the top. Half of them are bald, everyone knows bald people can't run a business -"
He lets her rant, pouring himself a glass and joining her on the sofa. Stretching out, he puts an arm around her and pulls her in. Her shoulders are tense and bunched up; he can feel her muscles, knotted and tight through her blouse. Even as her head lolls back onto his shoulder, she fidgets and itches; she can't seem to relax.
"You're awful tense."
"Just stressed." She breathes out, but the tension won't leave her shoulders.
"Tell you what," he says, and kisses her cheek, whispering in her ear. "Go and get ready for bed. I'll be in soon; I think someone needs a massage."
"Are you going to end that with 'that someone is me', and then demand a backrub?"
He laughs. "Not this time."
"Deal, then," she squirms around until she can tilt her head back and they share a soft kiss. "Don't be long."
She gets up and heads for bed, finishing her wine as she goes; he watches her hips sway in her pencil skirt as she walks, and smiles in anticipation.
* * * *
He's in shorts when he comes to bed, turning the switch off so that only the sunset glow of the lamp lights the room. She's lying on her front, arms folded under a pillow, with the covers over half her body. Her back, smooth and pale, leads down to the curve of her hips.
