loveseat

The couch, askew and disheveled, had aroused her suspicion. His flushed cheeks hinted at an adulterous guilt. Fortunately, his alibi had been palatable, and the distrust was fleeting.

Just five minutes earlier, though, and she would have caught him in the act.

His heart raced at the thought.

As she exited the room, he repositioned the couch against the wall, his hands clammy from nerves. A seam near the armrest showed the tiniest tear. One throw pillow was MIA. He tossed a quick glance toward the door before drawing his face near the beckoning cleft in the seat cushions – and whispering.

“No one must ever know of our love.”