A laptop is balanced precariously on a pile of books, better to get the camera at the right height for a video conference. Another laptop is on the floor. There are papers and folders everywhere. In the midst of this organised chaos my significant other is hard at work. The illusion is slightly broken because she is wearing a hoodie, tight yoga pants that produce a very noticeable camel toe, and fluffy bunny slippers.
I had never seen her at work. I was not even sure that I knew what she did. Marketing Analysis for an advertising agency does not really offer an explanation. Now I know.
In the late afternoon she tidies up. Laptops go in bags, papers in boxes. Order returns. (Not really, her apartment looks like it’s been burgled at the best of times, but you know what I mean.)
“Bad day at the office?” I ask.
“Yeah, very bad.”
We hug and kiss. The kisses become more passionate. She drags me off to the bedroom.
“I need a stress busting fuck!” She says.
That urgent fuck, the one we often have on a Friday evening when she returns from London, late, stressed and exhausted. You would think working from home would alleviate that stress, in truth it makes it worse, much worse.
Make that multiple stress busting fucks all over the long locked down Easter weekend.