My bosses had sex with each other last night. Donna* came in around 8:30 this morning looking refreshed, satisfied and rosy. Max* arrived 15 minutes later.

"Fifteen minutes is the perfect amount of time to squander any suspicion," he whispers under the protective cocoon of darkness in the wee hours of dawn. Fatigued after a long night's session of lovemaking under the light of Orion, Camelopardalis and Coma Berenices, the two lovers prepare to feast on ham and mutton on the back veranda, the juices of the animal carcass dripping onto their perspiring bodies. The meat is tempting, but not nearly as enticing as the prospect of the union of their bodies into one heaving mound of flesh. The ham will have to wait . . . yet again.

The buffet is not yet christened when the inevitable amalgamation of sexual energies occurs, but both parties know the meal will not go to waste and can be sold to customers later the next day. Nobody will have to know it was contaminated by fluids foreign to its own tissue. It is a caterer's prerogative to mix business with pleasure. When the two reunite at the deli,
their unsuspecting staff sense a shift in the environment. They can see it, taste it, smell it. The bizarre yet alluring combination of hot steaming sex and olive oil. A heady cocktail: the nectar of their merger as business partners joining forces with that of their merger as lovers.

Max strolls in sporting nightwear, painfully and regrettably referring to his attire as ‘his PJs’. Donna is both amused and surprised, balanced with just a hint of indifference: an emotional mishmash she had rehearsed in Max’s bathroom mirror hours earlier while cloaked in his green golf t-shirt and matching tartan boxers. Pajamas? Suspicious.

"Hi Donna," he says.

"Hello, Max, did you have a good night?" she replies with a sly smile, a smile that reads: 'I know exactly how your night went, but let's do have inside jokes about it, 'twould be such fun.'
"Oh, good," he says, with an expression of tired elation, and they both chuckle, the memories dodging back and forth between them.

Their eerie dynamic continues throughout the day. Any argument usually ends abruptly in a fit of giggles reminiscent of schoolgirls sharing secrets at a slumber party. At around 10 am, Donna begins to stir the ground beef, (which had undoubtedly been wedged between their two pulsating bodies at some point in time the night before.) Falsely believing they are alone in their own little crevice of the kitchen, Mark leans over and asks:
"How is the beef coming along?"
"It's almost perfect," Donna replies.
"You’re perfect..." he says.

These words won’t wash away with soap and water. I’ve tried. I’ve even tried using a male loofa. Not the frilly kind, but the rough sandpaper kind that tears into your third layer of skin. Nothing works.

The night before, after closing a half-hour early, Mark had uncharacteristically rushed his staff home. So the evening could begin. An evening of fine dining and sexual intrigue…My co-workers say I’m paranoid, but I just can’t look at anyone the same after finding a copy of Vox in my grandmother’s attic. It was conveniently placed beside a Sobeys bag filled with human feces, which I’m hoping belonged to my 3-year-old cousin and not my 79-year-old grandmother.

August 27th, 2004.

This afternoon Donna asked me to work with her next summer. I asked if Max would have me back (being obviously self-deprecating, of course he would have me back.) She beckoned for me to lean in:

"He may wear the pants, but I tell him when to take them off."

I may quit tomorrow.

JK Murphy has changed the names to protect the innocent (yeah, right)

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