Rufus

He watched her walk to the far shelf, where the coffees were shelved and then he watched as she scanned the selections, picking up one brand, replacing it, picking up another and studying it, then replacing that one, too. Such mundane movements that seemed somehow graceful and expressive, alluring and somehow innocent. She caught him watching her and he blushed. “Are you watching me?” she asked, and he shrugged, bashfully, and said nothing, then blushed, again, nodded, because he couldn’t lie to her. “I love you,” she said, and he said nothing, again, but she smiled, because she knew. “I think I’ll wait on the coffee,” she said, “The prices are better at the uptown store.” Then, she moved close to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered, “I love it when you watch me. I can feel it and I like the feeling.” For some reason, he wanted to ask her if she ever watched him, but he didn’t. He was afraid to ask. Maybe some other time, he figured. Some other time. Later. Maybe. Her name was Andrea. His was Sam. They would be married for 23 years, soon after which she would file for divorce, citing irreconcilable difference, singular. Their dog was named Rufus. She got him.