Story for the Worker

What a beautiful idea. We decided to go down to the waterfront to end the hellish day we had endured together. Not only had my best friend's father had a mild stroke that day, but our boss had told us that funding for our research would be ending within a year and I should start thinking about looking for employment elsewhere. I bought a bottle of the best Russian vodka I could find in our town of 50,000 while Susan, my best friend who's father had the stroke, finished up her work.

We met at the railroad tracks and proceeded to walk to the shore where we'd spent so many days during the last two years. It wasn't all innocent, to be sure. Most lunch breaks ended up at least with some hot and heavy caressing, and at best the most beautiful sexual encounter either one of us had ever had. At least that's what we said to each other.

So her father's stroke wasn't the only sort of stroking we had in mind. This place had a history for us, and our history here was what the future was made of. We had grown tired of the swinging singles life and had found each other out of that same motivation. It took time for us to really appreciate touching, caressing, and taking time with each other. I mean caressing, come on. That's for touchy feely types. Hippies even. We initially just got right down to it, and that was beautiful enough. But eventually it wasn't enough. She was too beautiful to just treat like a piece of meat. I needed to show her that I appreciated her, and perhaps even loved her or something similar to that. I still wasn't sure if I knew what love is. I wondered if anyone did.

I know I fooled myself many times into thinking I was in love. The greater the orgasm, the more in love I thought I was. That's how I thought I knew this time it was different. I hadn't even come in all our trips to the shoreline. It was all about her. The walk from the railroad tracks to the shoreline seemed short this time, and I realized that when I looked down and found myself knee deep in water.