Unfaithful by Devon Scott Page A

piece,” she says. Ryan nods, holding a steaming mug in his hand from which he gingerly takes a sip.
    Reese is watching him silently, leaning back, elbows on the rim of an adjacent chair. The act projects her breasts more than they already are, and she spies Ryan glancing over for a half-second. She smiles in self-assurance.
    “So to what do I owe this honor?” she asks. Reese, of course, knew he would return—understood he couldn’t stay away—but returning this soon was not anticipated.
    “I don’t know,” Ryan begins, putting down the mug, looking uncomfortable in his suit jacket. “Hot in here,” he adds.
    “Yes. Get comfortable,” Reese says. “You see I am.” She smiles again, locking stares with him. And Ryan returns a smile, feeling himself being drawn into this thing he can’t fully comprehend. He feels her power over him, and for a moment, he tries to wrestle with it, but then just sighs and gives in, feeling the rush, the attack, and infusion into his soul. With everything that’s gone on these past few days, this is a welcomed diversion. Reese, out of everyone, understands . Saturday morning, there was nothing between them other than intense conversation—Ryan’s insatiable need to gush what he was feeling—everything, every sordid detail to this total stranger because it just felt right—because Reese did not wrinkle up her nose in spite; she did not judge. And that is why he has returned. Because of how right it feels…
    “Our conversation,” he begins, jacket off, sleeves unbuttoned, tie loosened, leaning back, too, his position a mirror image of Reese’s, “intrigued me. Does that make sense?”
    “Of course. A lot was said.”
    Ryan nods his head. Considers, for the first time this morning, the totality of his situation—the snowball that is rolling down a hill.
    “It’s just…” and here he tries to find the right words, but falters. “I don’t know—it’s hard right now, trying to separate everything and make sense of it all.”
    “You’re questioning your own sexuality,” Reese says, sitting up, putting her mug down inches from his. She is cutting to the chase, not bothering to dance; no foreplay. “It’s understandable, but only earth-shattering if you allow it to be.”
    “How so?” he asks, sitting up, fascinated.
    “Isn’t that the entire crux of your concern? Up until a few weeks ago, you were a normal guy who seemingly had it all—job, marriage, the works. Then this thing came at you from out of nowhere and knocked you on your ass. This thing that began with infatuation morphed into obsession. Now, that would have been fine—you and your best friend indulging in a bit of the pie that night after everyone had gone to sleep—except it didn’t turn out that way. ’Cause brutha-man seemingly had been pining away for you—had you in his sights—yet, you didn’t know it. That’s when things turned ugly.”
    Ryan nods, eyes clear, knowing with full certainty that Reese has a better grasp of what is going on than anyone else in his sphere.
    “And now you’re hurting,” Reese continues, “totally messed up inside because of what has transpired between you and this guy. It’s understandable, but as I said, not earth-shattering.”
    “Easy for you to say,” Ryan quips.
    “Not really. You men need to stop being so damned homophobic. I mean, it was only a blow job, nothing else.”
    “Please! Just a blow job? You’ve got to be kidding!” Ryan exclaims. Suddenly, his arms are flailing wide.
    Reese leans forward, placing her hand over his, which is now resting on the coffee table. “Listen, you need to chill. A blow job is a blow job, Ryan. You dug it. You sat back and enjoyed the hell out of it. Why? Because in your mind, this woman…what was her name, Nora?”
    “Olivia.”
    “Olivia, right. In your mind, Olivia was making love to you, not anyone else. And that’s what made it so special—so passionate. In your mind, it was her mouth, her