Aphrodisiac

Kira hits the conference room twenty minutes late, cheeks flushed, her briefcase bursting with papers. A fat bottle rolls free from the zippered pouch and smashes on the carpet. Thick green fog pours out and melts into the air before anyone notices. She kicks the bottle under a chair, drops into her seat. No one sees the vapors drift from collar to blouse, from wrist to thigh. Five minutes later the data never gets read. Skirts ride higher, throats grow tight, fingers creep across the polished table. A heel hooks the leg of Kira’s chair. Someone’s breathing skips and steadies. Lips part. Eyes lock. The quarterly agenda dissolves into hands, mouths, breathless curses, and the wet slap of bodies slammed against glass walls that look out over an empty city at dusk.