June

I turn away from the sight of him before my ovaries file a formal complaint.

Adjusting the coffee in my grip, I start to move toward his desk, determined to keep it together.

Do not look at him again. Don’t. I tell myself, chin up, eyes low.

But of course, I do.

And there they are. His forearms. Those veins muscles, his sleeves rolled up just enough to make me remember.

And just like that, my brain betrays me.

I remember those same hands — the way they pushed me back against ...