My fingers did their job.
I left work like I do every day, opened WhatsApp as soon as I stepped out onto the street, and sent you the usual message: how your day went, if you’d eaten, if the day had offered you even a moment of respite. You replied calmly, as always.
Everything was fine, no surprises. You couldn’t wait to get home, take off your work clothes, and collapse on the couch. I was thinking the same thing. We both just wanted to rest.
The taxi arrived. I sat in the back seat, placed my purse on my lap, and gave him the address. The driver pulled away without looking back. That’s when I realized the ride was too long to limit myself to talking about trivial things. I struck up the conversation again and began typing more slowly, choosing each word carefully.
I told you that the story you’d sent me the night before had left me soaking wet. That I’d read it twice, the second time with my legs tightly crossed, because every sentence made me press my thighs together. I described to you how I imagined exactly what you were writing: you in front of me, taking your time, grabbing me by the waist and pushing me against the wall.
I told you that I dreamed you took me without asking my permission, that you spread my legs with your hands and thrust yourself inside me in one powerful movement…
