EST SUMMA NEFAS FALLERE
(DECEIT IS GROSS IMPIETY)

"I'm uneasy about this, Louise."

"It's just sex, Phil. It happens all the time. We're both adults. We've worked in the same office for two years, dated for three months and have strong feelings for one another. What could be more natural than taking the relationship to the next level?"

"But it can become addictive. There are couples who just can't get enough of each other. They do it five or six times a day, often in strange, dangerous places; Bill Selby on the fifth floor and that Connie somebody from marketing—a good case in point. Remember how often that 'Closed for Cleaning' sign was outside the second floor ladies bathroom? A couple of times each day, until Mr. Sherman wised-up. Did they think everyone was that blind or stupid?"

"We're mature adults. If we were sixteen, I might agree with you, but we're both well over thirty. All those chemicals you've been reading about that are released during intercourse—oxytocin, vasopressin, serotonin, to say nothing of prolactin—I'm sure they have some effect, but we're bright, well-educated adults. We have free will. But, if it makes you feel any better, we'll set up a timetable. This Saturday night let's have a nice, romantic dinner at Leno's. Then we'll go back to my condo and do the deed, whereupon you immediately go over to your place. No calls until Sunday night. The following Saturday we'll pig out on seafood at Beachcombers, and you can stay over if you want. It will be like spring training: we'll get used to each other slowly—not over-do it. Then, in three months, we'll be like an old couple. I'll claim a headache every night, and you'll have a gut-wrenching decision as to whether you want to have sex or watch whatever sport is on TV. Sound like a plan?"

***

I had the lasagna. Leno's does it differently from most Italian places: they use seafood, along with summer squash and sweet potatoes, if you can believe it. Louise led the way back to her place on Warren Avenue. She was very affectionate on the couch. Our passions resonated even further in the bedroom. I must admit it was terrific. We were comfortable with each other. Neither of us has a photogenic body, but that didn't matter. So, once we got the monkey off our backs, we decided to do it again—this time for fun. And it was fun: even better than the first time!

I shattered the grand plan by staying the night. When I woke up early the next morning, she was already on her elbows staring at me. We kissed, and that led to another roll in the hay. Then we got dressed, went out for blueberry pancakes, and came back with the Sunday papers. We danced the horizontal mambo to celebrate finishing the New York Times crossword, and again after defeating Henry Hook's Boston Globe puzzle. That afternoon we took a long nap, which caused us to stay up past midnight in near-constant sexual frenzy, thinking that the more times we orgasmed, the more prolactin we'd produce, and therefore the sleepier we'd get. When I got to my desk Monday morning, I was sore in the most intimate of places and had evidently pulled something in my abdominal wall which, when I took a deep breath, hurt like hell. Louise suffered similar anatomical discomforts, hers requiring a trip to the drug store for ointment.

***

I did not keep track of our lovemaking sessions that weekend; after all it was not a contest. I did, however, think that we would, due to soreness, etc., back off a bit. But such was decidedly not the case during the week. We had at it while fixing supper, at bedtime and early the next morning. By Thursday she'd rented a motel room and we began incorporating "nooners " into the workweek regimen. After two weeks of non-stop intimacy, I met her in the third floor conference room for a heart to heart.

"Louise, the motel is costing us a fortune."

"I know. I was thinking the same thing. Maybe we could lease a van, trick it out. That would really be cool."

"I was thinking more along the lines of cutting back to just bedtime."

"But I can't tell you how much I look forward to lunch. After the morning break I start to fantasize about what we're going to do. And I'm so relaxed when we get back that I'm a much better employee. I know you're not getting tired of me, because that's not what you said last night."

"Of course I'm not tired of you. Our life has been really great. I'm not too keen about getting a van though."

"I just threw that out there to get a rise out of you. What would you think about finding secret places right here in the building. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

***

I soldiered on as best I could. I thought I'd catch a break when I was sent to Pittsburgh for a three-day conference, but Louise had heard about phone sex, so I had to go through those motions with her each evening. When I got back I faked having caught some bug I didn't want to pass, and that gave me a four-day break. She was disappointed, but said she understood, and even tried making turkey and vegetable soup from scratch to help me get better. It wasn't bad tasting at all, and I stayed home for a few days to add some authenticity to my illness.

By late Friday morning I got bored around the house and decided to swing by the office, just to see what work was piling up on my desk. Mr. Sherman had given a few files to Jason Shapiro, so there wasn't a mountain of stuff. I sorted out some work that needed doing, and then decided to head upstairs and surprise Lou. It was 12:30 p.m. She wasn't at her desk, so I figured she must have gone out with the girls for a bite. Not to waste a trip, I thought I'd photocopy a few accounts to work on over the weekend, so I walked down the hall to the copy room. Par for the course was a sign on the closed door that said the copy machine was down, and the service man had been notified. Sometimes the machine is really down, but at other times it's a paper jam that, if you know what your doing and don't mind getting toner on your hands, can be fixed easily.

I pushed the door open and flicked on the light. The woman had her naked backside to me, but I immediately knew it was Louise. I'd recognize those love handles and cellulite anywhere. She and the repair guy took a moment to get used to the light. When she finally saw it was me, she toppled off him and curled into a little ball. Her paramour pulled up his pants and grabbed his tool case.

"The machine really is broken, buddy. Couple of sensors are gone. I'll have to order them. Should be up and running by late tomorrow, if Fed-ex is on the ball."

With those pearls of embarrassed wisdom, he was gone.

"I know you hate me." She was still tightly curled up, hiding as much flesh as she could, her voice muffled from behind her elbows.

"You should get dressed before the staff comes back from lunch."

She got up, turned her back and began to dress. "I still love you. I know you probably find that hard to believe, but it's true. This is the first time I cheated on you."

She used her panties to wipe some tears and runny eye makeup from her face, and then stepped into them. "Aren't you going to say something? I wouldn't mind if you slugged me. I deserve it."

"We need to go somewhere and talk. In theory I'm still out sick today."

"I guess I can take the rest of the day. I'll make up something. Maybe we could meet at your place in an hour. I'm so ashamed I can barely look at you."

I left the office and went home. An hour later, almost to the minute, she pulled in. Evidently she'd made a quick stop at home, changed and showered. Her hair was still wet. We sat at opposite ends of the couch looking out a muted CNN station on the TV.

"I don't have any excuse. You warned me about becoming addicted to sex, and I laughed it off. That's not a reason for doing what I did; I just did it. No impulse control at all: that's me. In fact I was fantasizing about being with you in the copy room when I went up there, but he was there, and one thing led to another; not that we got very far before you showed up."

"I want to be very honest with you. If we do get back together, we need to slow down. Doing it all the time is killing me, my job performance and my body."

"Oh God, I could sense that in you but was too selfish to act on it. I can change; I swear I can."

She turned to me and slid to the middle of the couch. "It was a meaningless, thoughtless act which I will never, ever repeat. May god give me cervical cancer if I do."

I moved next to her and gave her a hug. It was as if I'd squeezed something I'd pulled out of the water, as she immediately began to cry. "Oh Phil, I don't deserve you. I really don't."

We sat that way for a long time. Then I broke the silence. "You know, I hate to admit it, but when I saw you with him it was a little bit erotic."

She straightened up and drew back. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm being very honest. I was aroused and kind of regretted flicking on the lights so soon."

She kissed me on the cheek and sat back. She was reflective. "You know, as long as we're opening up to each other, I must confess that two days ago I was sitting with Carol Ryboski at morning break. She works in HR, and her husband of nineteen years left her last Christmas. The divorce is now final, and guess what—she's dating her divorce lawyer. Well, she and I were having some friendly girl talk, and she let it slip that he's introduced her to swapping, swinging or whatever it's called. Maybe we could think about that, if you wanted to. I mean they're a very clean couple and belong to a whole network. The way she explained it, it's very safe and no one does anything they don't want to. It's like going into a restaurant and asking to for a menu to see if you'd like the place. No harm in simply walking away."

I stared at the TV. According to the crawl at bottom of the screen a ferry boat in Indonesia had sunk, and over two hundred people were lost. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."

She began to cry again. "You are such a kind, forgiving man. We're soul mates, you and I."

"So we are."

D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. He has had fiction and poetry published in several journals and reviews including the Boston Literary Magazine, Connecticut Review, The Pedestal, Storyglossia, SNReview, eclectica and Menda City. Poetry has appeared in the Paumanok and Paris Reviews. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best short fiction of 2005 and was a 2006 Ontario Award Finalist. He won the 2006 Black River Chapbook Competition and received a 2007 Pushcart Special Mention Award. He has been included in the Million Writers Award of Notable Stories for 2005, 2006 and 2007. A novel, Exiled to Moab, published by Six Gallery Press will debut in 2008.

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