Taken

I began calling her obsessively because I craved the sound of her voice. Taken Cover Mostly, I would hang up once she answered, but sometimes, I lingered, breathing softly, listening to the throaty way she wrapped her mouth around, “Hello,” over and over again. I pictured her tapping her long, perfectly manicured fingernails against her desk, her brow furrowing with frustration—perhaps a little fear?

And then at home, she would slip out of her heels, loosen the waistband of her sensible skirt, and sink into the couch, sighing with relief, as she recounted her day to me. For whatever reason, she never told me about the phone calls. That made me wonder. I should have left well enough alone.