His face in the mirror, stern with quiet scrutiny. The dirty tile and the soft recession of steam. His profile pictures are candid and loose-a grainy photo of him asleep in the sand, a photo of him shaving, taken from behind. In his first message, he points out a few typos in my online profile and tells me he has an open marriage. The idea that someone in the office, with that sweet, post-lunch-break optimism, might come across the thread and see how tenderly Eric and I have built this private world. The thrill of a third pair of unseen eyes. Of course I worry about IT remoting into my computer, or my internet history warranting yet another disciplinary meeting with HR. The empty text field is full of possibilities. He is fond of words like taste and spread. His messages come with impeccable punctuation. He tells me what he ate for lunch and asks if I can manage to take off my underwear in my cubicle without anyone noticing. He is uptown processing a new bundle of microfiche and I am downtown handling corrections for a new Labrador detective manuscript. The first time we have sex, we are both fully clothed, at our desks during working hours, bathed in blue computer light.
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