The girl from work fussed when you cut your finger. She lingered a little too long at your desk, her crotch against your armrest… felt your elbow through her skirt.

The girl from work looked up and smiled as she rubbed against you on the train. Her hair…. a golden mess, defiantly curly though wet from the rain.

Your stop, she didn’t get off. You returned to your mortgage and wife and the girl from work traveled on to her life.

Published on – stories that fit on a postcard!