I try to shape my days now by my work. Numbers in charts, words battered out of a keyboard, spit out from a whirring printer: Let's say it is work like that I do, work meant for grey-walled cubicles under flickering fluorescent lights.

Waiting by the printer for my work, the result of my work, to come, gazing out at the deepening steely Grey of evening, I realize that one again, I have reached Friday. Yet another Friday.

Am I impatient? -- tapping the inch-thick stack of paper from the printer on the table, all the edges of this week, this month, this whatevers-worth of work needing to be neatened, lined up, ready to turn in (and just in time) to the fellow waiting for it, waiting for me, down by the corner.

He smiles -- as much as any of us ever smile here at work -- as he glances up from his desk. A tired S of dark hair slips down his forehead, brushing his brow, wanting someone's two fingers to pat it back to place, combing from his part a time or two just to be sure. A half day's growth of beard shadows his jaw, the hours we have spent here makes his face seem just a little wan, makes me lean against the frame of his office door, the two of us sharing our week's-ending weariness, waiting in case one of us needs to, wants to, tell the other something. Anything. I lean, as if the weight of hours had made me tired, as if the strain of preparing what I have prepared for him, what waits before his eyes for him, has somehow unwound something that had restrained me, something that stiffened me inside. Perhaps, not really leaning, I drape myself on the doorframe's metal edge. Waiting.A word or two, perhaps more. Work words, they can be paragraphs but really boil down to a word or two. Problems? No? Yes? All good? Yes? No? Need something?

Not that he's brusque. He's smiling, just a little. It is the end of the week, a Friday evening, we are allowed, we can allow ourselves to unwind a little from this pretend-great task of work that we've embarked, it is a time when we may stretch out the kink in our lower backs from hours lost in concentration on our work.
We can look into a colleague's eyes and see.
"Friday," he smiles

"Yes, Friday," I reply.

And wait. Wondering if he is the one who will ask. Wondering what he sees, what he is thinking as his eyes dart, as his glance flits. On me, the clock. The spot on his desk where there are no photos of wife and children carefully arrayed next to the in-tray.

A few seconds, a minute. Waiting. Will he?

An unvoiced sigh, push of my elbow against the doorframe. Upright: will that be the signal that he needs to see to say, no, stay a bit.

"Stick around for a bit?" he halfway asks.

Stick around? Yes, oh yes. Oh yes I'll stick around.

"I'd like to take a fast look," he smiles again. "I'm sure it's just exactly what I want."

And so, of course, I stick around. Outside, the steel sky deepens into velvet blue, a star, a planet, sparkles like a tiny jewel. The clock above the water cooler ticks, voices mutter their see-ya's, have-a-good-weekends.

Tell me, tell me, I want to ask. Tell me, what should I do?

What if he walks on back here? Stops there, right by my cubicle -- do I smile? This way, like that. What is too much? If he leans there, against the half-wall, do we lock eyes? Do I glance and then look away? If he asks, do I try a yes, or simply nod, afraid the word would catch and shatter in my throat? And if he sits? Or if he leans and brushes a hand? a knee? What do I do? What do I want?

Waiting, wondering. Thinking: We might very well have a drink, we would be sitting where, at the bar? There'd be a buzz of conversation all around, perhaps not quite drowning the line of melody of an hit song from when we both were kids, the pounding of a bass guitar. I'd perch, I'd have to, on the edge of the wooden stool, legs crossed primly, stiffbacked with nerves. He would have draped his jacket over the back when he gave up his own stool to the girl who'd just arrived, I think. He'd speak his half-heard words to me; I'll nod and speak words he would likely never hear. Nervous, I'd drink too fast.

And he'd order another.

Standing, because he'd have given up his stool, he'd be much closer. Perhaps the warmth from all the people filling the bar, more and more as Friday freed them from their week, might make him yank his tie a little loose, might lead him to unbutton his collar; perhaps that, or just the fact he'd be standing closer might make me think I felt his heat. Perhaps it'd be when he leaned towards me to slide my drink over.

I'd see his eyes glance down my front, see how he shifts his weight from foot to foot. I'd see him look, unable to not look, as the buzz of others' words, the music from so long ago, the clink of glass the shock of laughter cutting through, the sounds all rising, swelling until we two were isolated in a tiny space of unheard words and unsaid thoughts.

A wall of sound around the still and silent eddy that enfolds us. His eyes rising slowly from the valley of my front, caressing that smooth V of skin, that curve of throat, the red plush of my lips, my dark framed glowing eyes. Eyes gazing into eyes, green eyes into my Grey, imagining that through the dark opening of iris we could see a soul, that a gaze might so softly touch the intangible other, make him uncurl so you can gape at the wonder of his size, the colors he is to share with you.

My eyes, pretending not to see him gazing down my front, fixed on his hands resting, so large they cover mine, the heavy skin stretched over the knobs of knuckles barely containing the strength that pulses through the thick veins that feed his half-clenched fingers. I see: His forearms, tendons and muscle exposed by a turn or two of his cuff; see biceps I'm not sure my hand could encompass pressing the thin cloth of his shirt: see blunt chin, straight nose and eyes, green eyes, gazing into mine.

Around us, would the buzz of other people, beat of the music retreat, would unheard thoughts converge, unsaid words invite our movement onward? Rising from the table, my hand in his, would he lead me through a crowd that parted for us, lead me through the swirling glitter of colored light and laughing couples, following a step or two behind. His arm reaching behind, my stretching before me, following.

Somehow, we'd have to know how many steps from the doorway of the bar into the evening dark, how far from the red glow of neon, before that tiny tug spins me close enough for his arm to sweep me up, curve round the small of back and then fold me into his chest. One step or two or three.

Somehow, lips an inch or two apart, we'd know that in a heartbeat, two heartbeats, uncountable heartbeats, he will gaze into me my eyes and bend to me. Somehow, I'll know when it's not just desire, not just the hope of his approach, but the sheer fact of him that means it is with shaking breath that I must close my eyes, that is with the next breath that I will feel his lips brush mine.

Will it be just one kiss, there in the shadows, or maybe two? Will he let my lips fall an inch or two from his so we can catch our breaths and then kiss me again, or shall I stroke my hand up from his neck and pull him down to me? Will I lift myself to the tips of my toes, bend one knee, raise my foot so that, tiptoed I must lean into him so he pulls me closer, closer, still?

Waiting for him now in my cubicle, looking out at the evening sky, its violet washed with the glow of city lights diffusing in the mist, wondering if it is warm enough that he will break our kiss and once again, hand in hand, he'll lead me on into the dark, perhaps the lawn beyond a small grove of carefully-planted pine, a mound of juniper to block the view of passers-by. Or maybe that is where he left his car, and would he, after opening the door for me, lean down and take another kiss, or simply smile and step round to the other side to drive us off. What do I think in those seconds after I slide into the seat and wait? Shall I turn to him, smiling, as he fumbles with his key until the engine roars alive?

What might he say, craning his neck to see behind, as he pulls out?

Silent, demure, I'd wait, I suppose. Or perhaps I am supposed to say something to him. Perhaps I need to whisper No when his hand brushes my knee, perhaps I need to giggle softly. Which is it? Will he talk much as we drive on, I wonder, as I sit here in my cubicle and wait. And when we arrive, wherever it is we are bound, I'll wait, I guess, for him to open the door, gather my arm as I swing my legs clear, ankles pressed tight, so he can lift me free. Perhaps he'll tug and swing me again into his chest, or tug a different way so that I follow him, a step or two behind, as he leads me on.

We'll walk along a winding gravel path, I think, past beds of flowers, colors dimmed by moonlight into muted purple, blue and black; petals turned inwards, folded together for the night, as we are meant fold ourselves together in the night. We'll walk through deeper shadows of that the trees cast and emerge back into the silver light washing the lawn. Walking, walking.

Or maybe the path will stretch just a few yards from his car to a wood-framed doorway, where he will fumble with his keys again, before he lets us in. There in the darkness of his living room, he'll cup my face with his hands as he kisses me again. He'll step another step towards me, let his hands brush though my hair, fall to my shoulders, trace the outline of my arms as he bends lower, where his glance had fallen, touching with his lips the spot just where the valley between my breasts narrows. I'd barely feel the first button slipping free, as his chin, as his kissing lips, his cheeks are cradled there; I'd barely feel his awkward grope as he tries, once, twice and at last to unsnap the hook and eye on my bra, I'd barely feel it slip down as his lips encircle a nipple: first, my right, I think, and then, once I had swollen, maybe moaned a time or two, and risen to the touch of his tongue, his lips would take my left nipple and inhale.
My hand would have to touch him, have to stroke, have to pull him closer; and pulling closer, he'd lift his lips again to fit, fold me into his arms kiss me deeply, tongue pushing into me, an urgent need to taste, to probe.

I'd feel him, hard and throbbing against my belly, feel a wall of muscle under my palm, tugging his shirt free, stroking circles, circles, circles on his stomach as he kissed. One arm across my back would press me to him, hold me as my knees melted for a moment, hold me as I tumbled backwards, carrying him with me to the sofa.

A little half twist so we both would fit, my back pressed to the soft back of the sofa, my hand sliding down to the bulge of trousers where he is straining toward me.

Rubbing, feeling an arc of need, his need, bulging beneath the slight roughness of cloth, sliding layers of cloth. Beneath the pressing of my palm, his wool trousers slipping over the cotton next to the tender skin, I feel him throb and know it's time to tug, to slowly tug the zipper.

He stirs a little, springing free. I hold him in my hand, feeling him stir, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the rose-red skin, feeling the engorged flesh, his head edged purple, as tender to my touch as a bruised fruit, for his whole body shudders when I brush the side of my index finger's first knuckle there. My thumb barely pressing at the spot where his head meets the bottom of his arcing, aching shaft. I feel his aching, know his aching.

Fingers enfold, wrapping him like the petals of the flowers outside enfold each other and the flowers' cores when evening falls, With a slow stroke down, he groans.

Watching my hand stroke, watching myself, thinking -- what do you think at such a moment, I ask myself, sitting there in my little grey-walled cubicle, waiting.
Watching, watching. With a slight arch of neck, I look up to his face, in time to hear him moan, looking for a sign and seeing eyes closed, dark curl of hair flopping down. Wanting to brush it back into place, except my hand is busy now, stroking, stroking.

He's trembling beneath my touch, the velvet skin of his shaft slides over the iron beneath, warmth rising as his quivers, the pale wet seeping from his head brushes onto my inner wrist, a strange perfume of must and of desire.

He groans again, and now I feel his hand on me, his hand traveling up my inner thigh, his hand cupping me for a moment, pressing hard through the cloth before, abrupt and urgent, he is yanking at my own zipper, pushing his fingers in, cupping again, through the thin and satiny final shield of cloth. Blunt fingers, urgent fingers, slip beneath the edge of fabric as I stroke him.

His fingers find the smooth curve that he'd cupped through cloth is now a flower opening for him, damp as if bedewed by a rising sun, the sun whose warmth and light relaxed the enfolded petals of the night before. His finger finds the line between my lips and traces it once, twice before he lays it there between my lips, just lying there, a presence I cannot ignore, a weight heavier than a single finger could ever be, the weight of contained power, resting, waiting, his finger lying there, barely pressing lips apart. Now I moan.

Did I moan? Could anyone in this emptied maze of cubicle have heard? Where is, when will he come?

First, though, he bends the knuckle, first knuckle of his finger lying there so that his blunt fingertip strokes, presses a little deeper, not even an inch, into me, a small wave, tiny cycle: Stroke and press. And, yes, reach again. Stroke and press. A finger, barely moving, a strong hand cupping me and I feel a warm, liquid electricity begin to swell from there, from there between my legs, to wash, diffuse as mist, along my inner thighs, slowly spreading as his touch reaches just a little deeper, moves just a little faster, so that the warmth flows like a tiny silver rivulet and the mist encircles legs. I feel a bloom of warmth across the small of my back, as if a pale and golden fragrant oil was seeping down into that bowl and spreading, spreading. His finger stroking, two fingers stroking and now the glow rises along the curve of my belly towards my navel, spreading, slowly thinking: like a haze become a mist become a cloud touched by the rising sun, infused with light, turning from violet to rose to gold until the moment when the day has finally come.

He'd shift himself again, I think, and I'll slip down a bit so that my back no longer's cradled by the soft fat back of the sofa, but instead presses flat to the seat-cushions, bobbing as he lifts himself to his knees, straddling me, trying to find his balance as he tugs my pants, my panties down, as he yanks his trousers out of his way.

And now, again I'm moving, as he strokes a hand along my rear, the back of my thigh, my knee, lifting my leg so he can thrust ...

The creaking of a spring, faint as it sounds, is louder than the moan I feel so deep inside my throat. Hauling myself upright in my swivel chair, feeling the wobble of its plastic arms, the roughness of the burlap textured back pressing through my thin shirt as I snap back.Steps coming, slowly, past the empty cubicles. Coming to me, I hear, muffled though each step is by the dark gray carpet that he's walking over, slowly, oh so slowly, coming to me.
What is he going to say, once he has turned that final corner? Will he hang a large hand along the top of my cubicle wall, cock hips as his eyes dance over my body, peer down a shirt I'd unbuttoned just one button too far. Will he stand square, legs spread wide, in the very center of the opening; inevitable presence, the way he'll want to be, the way he expects to be, the way his size almost demands he be, the way strength contained within his skin, that almost vibrates with energy eager for release, compels.

And there, he stands. Now he is standing in the aisle by my cubicle, now he is turning, facing me. He fills the opening, he is that big. The curl of dark hair flops again, as if tired by the week, by the stale air of the office we are surely about to escape. The sheaf of papers that is the week of work I want now to forget, to leave behind, is in his hand, hand fallen easily, tiredly by his hip. A half smile. A glance into my eyes.

"Very nice," he says.

"Yes?"

"Very nice, yes."

He neither leans nor stands, but steps into my space and lays the papers on my desk. He is just inches from my chair, looming over me, almost touching -- or did he brush my arm there for a second.Waiting, now. Waiting.

Waiting for the word, what he will say.

I try a half smile.

Nothing,

Tilt head, look up into his face.

Nothing.

Only my breathing, his. Each breath of mine shorter than the one before. Heart hammering, surely he hears, surely he knows.

Nothing.

A deep inward gasp and then:

"Friday," I say, as lightly as I can manage. "How about a drink?"

A sharp glance down, a step away.

Flash in his eyes as he takes yet another step, another, retreating through the opening, outside my cubicle. A moment that feels like an hour, like two as I wait, shaking, sick shivering in my belly, for what the dark scowl now twisting his face promises, has to promise, what I should have known, but didn't, too late to tell him: look again, look more closely, feel:

"You fucking faggot," he snaps. "No way."