It was hot. It was passionate.
And, like all things earthly, it was but a brief respite from the mundane rote of everyday routine – a routine that put everything within a well-defined timetable. A routine that was killing, to say the least. A routine where everything, every damn thing, even things that were supposed to be spontaneous, things that were alive only in their spontaneity, things whose very souls was their being unexpected, was planned. Meetings, lunches, dinners, vacations, sex, love, drives – even crises – everything happened according to a schedule. It was this routine that drove them to it. Not love. Not even lust. Not even the thrill of cheating.
And when it was ended, it was not the end of the world. It ended because it too had become part of the schedule. Thursday evenings’ “Production Meetings” that went on all night became much too routine. Sudden “crises” on Sundays became all too boring. Once more, like the calm on the surface of a lake after a meteor has crashed into it, things came back to “normal.”
It was over.