This article appeared in issue 27 of Vanity Fairon newsstands until 6 July.
He did not delete all the photographs as he promised.
He kept one. He needed her to make sure those months with her really existed. Not just in her imagination.
It is well hidden in the cell phone, that image. She has to scroll back to January 2018, and even so she is disguised in check and other photographs of her children.
He remembers well how he sat in the car after the last meeting, deleting photo after photo. She included some that he would have liked to have tattooed in his memory:
In panties and lace bra, leaning against the windowsill, indoors. (He had asked her afterwards to wear them for their meeting, and as soon as she entered he had stuck it to the wall and gasped in her ear that he wanted to fuck her hard, because that was what she had imagined doing all week, but suddenly inside. she felt something else, something that, if she could find words, they would have been more like – I missed you).
With a very short miniskirt that revealed her tanned legs, and a book in her lap. (She had sent it to him on a family vacation in Greece. With the request not to answer because she didn’t always carry her cell phone).
In the bathroom, with his hand slipping under his briefs. (The deeper their relationship deepened, the more the photographs she sent became bold, desperate).
Every time he got one of those photos, it got hard on him. (In the last period they got excited until they enjoyed twice a day. Using words, images, voice messages, anything that can help the imagination).
But in the end he had chosen to save an innocent shot in the office bathroom.
It was the only photo, among the many she had sent him, in which he did not smile.
He had had a bad day. In the morning her daughters had driven her mad even more than usual, and then her evil boss had offended her again.
So she went to the bathroom to wash her face. From there she sent him a picture of her with it written, I hope you don’t mind if I send you one as well.
She wore a lawyer’s jacket with a white blouse underneath. Her hair was perfectly neat, but her lithe, erect, woman’s body playing tennis twice a week was relaxed. And her bold, open gaze, the gaze for which he had fallen in love with her with an intensity he never knew he was capable of, was suddenly vulnerable, tender.
He had received that photograph at a meeting and had only needed one glance; he immediately apologized to everyone present and left the room to call her.
What happened? She had asked.
She had told. While he listened. And she said, thank you, listen to me.
He had remained silent.
And she had said, why are you silent.
He had not been able to hold back any longer and had replied, under normal conditions at this time I would tell you that I love you.
And she had admitted, too. And then immediately, I have to say hello.
When they met, a few days later, she explained, with downcast eyes: listen, the situation got out of hand. I think if we go on it will destroy both of our lives. Do you understand, right?
He said, I understand.
And she had placed her hand on his. They had been silent for a few minutes.
Then they had paid and, just before leaving, each to his car, she had asked him to delete all the photographs. He nodded, but he felt the need to keep one. To make sure those months with her really existed. Not just in her imagination.
Source: Vanity Fair
