Mini-Fiction: The Gray Rain

She sat at her desk, quietly sorting through invoices and payment receipts, a playlist on Spotify, her only company on a rainy Friday afternoon. 

Todd Rundgren's voice came over her speakers: "Hello, it's me..." 

She paused. 

Her hands, clutching papers, lowered to the desk. 

Her eyes turned to the large bay windows facing the soggy parking lot and grey skies. 

Her mind drifted to a young man she'd known some four decades ago. 

His deep brown eyes, flirty and kind. His soft brown hair. His mischievous grin. His wicked sense of humor. And the hungry way he had kissed her, that first time under a Christmas tree. 

She remembered the shape of him, crawling over her as she lay underneath him in a soft bed, cool creamy sheets embracing her. 

She remembered the intensity of his gaze as he positioned himself carefully, just before the moment of union. 

She remembered the sighs, the surrender of them both, the taste of his mouth on hers. 

She sighed, forcing herself back to the invoices and receipts. She was in the office, after all, and couldn't be thinking of him right now and having people ask "why are you so flushed - are you ok?" 

'He was the One,' she thought to herself, sorting invoices by batch number. 'He was the One, and I let him get away.' 

Outside, the rain continued to fall indifferently, dousing the city and streets. Thunder rolled. Lighting flashed. 

And a middle aged woman stapled an invoice to a receipt and filed it.