I cried out when Sheila eased the USB drive into me. The print of Vermeer’s The Milkmaid that hung in her hotel room swam in my tears. I clutched at the bedsheet. “I’m scared!” I said, yelping each word. “I’m! So! Scared!” She press the jump drive, wrapped in a condom, deeper inside me.
I work alone. I like good thick walls. There are times late at night, my naked and sweating body covered in the dust of dry wall, granite, hot filaments of steel and ceramic fibers, where I reach the ecstasy you only see on the faces of saints in the paintings of the Dutch masters. I don’t fuck around.
The night Sheila gave me her copy of the employee manual with a nude photo of her in it I knew. Another ship would sink burning into the sea just like before. In that empty parking lot alone with that picture I knew I was a doomed man. My wedding ring in the cup holder of my sedan, I nearly bit a hole in my upper lip.