Jan. Week 3: A Long Weekend-Monday...Lunch with Jonathan: Leah meets Mr. Howard in the bathroom...for her Meatballs...

The meaning was so obvious—so grossly, lewdly unsubtle—she almost snorted, except the sick twist in her stomach made it impossible to laugh. Leah could not believe Mr. Howard wanted a fucking renezvu right here in the restaurant. She’d known he was going to try something; she just didn’t expect him to move this quick or to be so damn shameless. He was ridiculous. She knew she had to text him a response...

She darted a look at Jonathan, who was still hunched over the menu. He was so sweetly, helplessly naïve. She typed a reply: “Fine.” Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment—she could always say no, she could always walk out, she could always tell Jonathan everything and become single and unemployed in the span of an hour—but the thought hardly even registered as a real choice. She was so far past the point of return that the idea of escape, of confession, felt like a punchline in a joke no one was telling.

She pressed send.

“I’m gonna run to the ladies’ room,” she announced, keeping her voice as casual as she could. Jonathan’s eyes flicked up from his menu, his face blooming with a guileless smile. “You can tell the waitress I’ll take the Miso-Glazed Salmon Risotto.”

“That sounds good,” he said with a smile. “You want me to get us an appetizer going?”

“Sure. Surprise me.” she got up out of the booth brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear then she headed toward the restrooms.

The restaurant was small but trendy, with a winding bar along one wall and teal subway tiles lining the hallway to the restrooms. Leah moved down the corridor, heart pounding, feeling the invisible leash tighten with every step. The restroom was at the end—one of those overly spacious “gender-neutral, ADA-compliant” deals, tiled from floor to ceiling and faintly perfumed with lemony disinfectant. She rapped twice, then slipped inside.

Mr. Howard was already waiting, leaning one hip against the sink, scrolling through his phone. The sight of him there, so casual and expectant, made her stomach lurch for a whole new set of reasons.

“You are fucking insane,” she hissed, slamming the door behind her and twisting the lock. “My fiancé is literally sitting right there. And you—” She gestured wildly at him, at herself, at the absolute absurdity of everything.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the corners of his mouth curled up devilishly slow.

“He doesn’t have to know,” Howard said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “And you don’t have to make it weird. Unless you want to.” He took half a step closer, so the little bathroom felt suddenly half as small.

Leah could have slapped him, or kneed him, or told him to go fuck himself, but all she did was scoff and roll her eyes. “You’re such a fucking pervert,” she muttered.

“Just make this fast,” Leah growled, heat rushing to her face and neck. She barely had to think about kneeling—her legs folded under her, muscle memory guiding her into place as if she’d done this a hundred times before (which, in some roundabout way, she had).

“You can't rush perfection Leah.” he smiled at her.

"This isn't perfection. It's blackmail." Leah said flatly

“Well--why not think of it more as...an appitizer before your meal instead?” He chuckled at his dark humor.

He unzipped, revealing himself with the cocky efficiency of a man who’d wasn’t used to being told no.

“Don't worry I am sure you will make short work of me. What do you say?” He nudged her chin with the head of his cock, patronizing as ever.