The room is large, important. Serious. Bookshelves line the walls, save for one giant picture window, dark curtains pulled aside, exposing the room to the streetlights and traffic in the street below. Dim lights angle down from the ceiling, casting shadows and streaks of soft golden light around the room.
Here stands a mantle, the fireplace beneath empty, cold, and dusty. There, an old armchair in the corner, striped upholstery creased with age. Against the wall, a podium. The floor is marble tile, cold, hard.
The room itself is sturdy, immersed in its timelessness, almost permanent. Something about the light moving around the room, here now, there a moment later, is fluid, delicate. It’s gentle and it doesn’t quite belong but at the same time it is a perfect compliment. The room is tense, waiting.
In the center stands a huge wooden table. It smells of lemon and old forest. Chairs ring its edge. The tabletop is empty, cleared of papers, laptops, the vestiges of business. Something in the table is forbidding.
On the table, she waits for him, naked. Her arms folded under her head. Her knees pressed to her chest. Her ass in the air, completely out of place in the room. She is thrilled and terrified at once, in this place she does not belong. The light makes her hair glimmer, her skin shines from within. Her heart pounds. The only sound is of her panting.