I wrapped my arms around myself as I waited for him to arrive. It was a warm day—one of the first of the spring. The smell of creosote wafted from the parking lot. But the golden touch of the season hadn’t found all of the nooks and crannies yet, and scraps of winter could still be found in chilly hollows and stray breezes that rippled the tender grass a flickering silver and whipped cherry blossoms like dervishes.  When a wink of sun off a windshield finally announced Coworker’s arrival, I was a tightly coiled spring. 

He pulled in beside my car, and I noted with a small measure of satisfaction the slight dip in his hood that fractured and distorted the reflection of the brilliant sky.  

“Well that was something,” he said blandly, stepping out and slamming the door behind him.  The wind played with his tie and flipped it over his shoulder. “I figured that our paths would cross at work eventually, but it’s kind of crazy that it happened today.”  He tugged the knot loose and slid it from his collar, casually slinging the silk accessory in the open driver window. “Why’d you go, anyway?”

I had prepped for this. For the past forty-five minutes, I had sat on a picnic table in the abandoned pavilion, watching the geese play on the water and concocting my plan. Well, not all of the time had been spent on the picnic table—I had also scoped out a special location just perfect from rendezvous. 

I thrust my hands into my pockets and leaned against a pavilion post, trying to act casual. “I just needed time to process. I—uh—I learned your name today,” I stammered, trying to sound unrehearsed. 

Grant cocked his head. “Okay, yeah. I guess you would have had to since our projects overlapped.”  He propped himself on the front bumper, just as he had that first night. “I’m still not sure why this was a whole thing.  The no-names thing, I mean.”

I shrugged. “It’s just a rule I’ve made for myself. No strings.  Fun only. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He grinned. Between that and his goddamned loafers—which he had essentially rested right under my nose when he extended his legs and crossed them at the ankles—my knees wobbled like canned cranberry sauce.  

“I’m all for casual,” he conceded. “But to be fair, I’ve known your name for quite a while.”  When I stared wordlessly, he chuckled. It was like, I don’t know, fucking wind chimes. And I didn’t want it to be. I wanted to hate him.

And his wife. Patti. 

What kind of a name was Patti? It reminded me of that singer my mom used to listen to on the car. Sandi Patty. I could still hear her quasi-operatic voice singing praise music while the wind whistled through the hand cranked windows. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, and I snapped back into focus. Grant was leaning in, eyebrows raised. 

I blinked. “I guess that I’m not all that surprised,” I admitted. “Meckley isn’t all that big.”

Grant leaned back, satisfied. “Exactly. But I didn’t want to tell you because I knew the whole anonymity thing was important to you.”  

Or perhaps it was that he didn’t want to invite my finding out exactly who he was. He could play this off as flippantly as he wanted, but he had to be nervous.  If I had his name—which I did—wouldn’t he be wondering when I would find out about his marital status—which I had?  

All in good time. Fun first. 

“Come on,” I coaxed, taking him by the hand. “I want to show you something.”  I drew him off the car, which seemed to surprise him, whether for my strength or for the intimate nature of the move, I couldn’t say. 

Thoughts of my petty revenge collided with the heat that I had come to know from simply being near Grant as I led him down to the water behind a copse of budding trees. Already I could feel the ground beginning to slightly yield to the tread of my own shoes beneath a tender carpet of young marsh marigolds. 

“What are we doing here?” he asked, perhaps also detecting a tentativeness about the spot.  The nap of his suede loafers was dotted with dark water spots.  I turned to face him, knowing that my plan had already all but succeeded.  In a short moment, he would be completely at my mercy. While there was plenty I didn’t know about Grant Benson, of this I good reason to be sure. 

“This is where I want you,” I said simply, putting my hands on his waist and positioning him with his back to the reservoir. Before he could protest, I unbuckled his woven leather belt and let the ends hang limply from the loops of his linen pants. I tugged at his crisp blue shirt, untucking it from his waistband, and kept my eyes on him as I methodically unbuttoned it. Grant, I noticed, watched my fingers working rather than returning my gaze, sending a small finger of anger to singe its way through my building excitement. 

I briefly allowed my hands to run under his t-shirt, feeling the solidness and the heat of his chest. That’s when I felt more than heard a small groan bubble from within him. I found myself smiling at this. 

For the past hour, as I had waited for his arrival and steeped in my own swirling thoughts, I had surmised that not only was Grant not gay, he probably wasn’t even bisexual.  Maybe it was the thrill of the forbidden. Or perhaps Patti didn’t do oral.  The reason didn’t really matter. Once I had replayed every one of our encounters in my mind—and hated myself for not having recognized it then and there—I had finally seen it: he never touched me, but moreover he hadn’t so much as looked at me.  Head back, eyes closed, he always seemed to writhe his way to climax as though I wasn’t the one carrying him there.  It was never intercourse—I was his masturbator. And I loathed myself all the more for having rationalized it because I had been busy indulging in my own silent pleasures. 

Not today. Today Grant Benson would know I was there.