The Perfect Pair 
(MF cheat, obsession)


I was rummaging where I ought not but I had a good excuse. I mean, you 
don't rifle through the desk drawers of a trusted work colleague. I 
mean, you just don't. But he'd gone missing and we needed the stuff he 
was working on critically urgently. So I was looking for the red 
folder containing the stuff and I found it and slapped it on his desk 
triumphantly. Something else had come out of the drawer with it. I saw 
it was an envelope of photographs and I was putting it back when they 
slipped out and fell on the floor. I was putting the photos back in 
the envelope when I saw the particular snapshot which was to have a 
particular effect on my life from that point. It was a woman, young, 
smiling, standing by a swimming pool, topless. Yeah, so what, you say. 
Another topless female snapshot. I mean, you'd take a quick look but 
so what. I'll tell you so what.

She was quite pretty. I guessed straight away she was Eric's wife. 
He'd been married three or four months ago when he was away on 
extended leave. I hadn't met her. Nobody here had. She was Eric's new 
wife and she was quite pretty. But that's not the story. The thing 
about the photo was that Eric's new wife had unquestionably the finest 
pair of breasts in the universe. I'm not kidding. They were absolutely 
sensational. I mean, you just didn't know they came that good. Sure, 
they were big. Well, maybe biggish. But not huge. They weren't 
watermelons. They were, however, bigger than the average and the shape 
and the look of them was simply flawless.

I held the photograph and looked at it with my mouth open. My God, I 
was thinking. I have looked upon perfection. I will forever be 
dissatisfied with anything less. Quickly I scrabbled through the pile 
of snapshots and found another topless shot. But just one more. In the 
rest she was clothed in varying degrees. I examined it urgently. 
Confirmation. It hadn't been just a trick of the light. Again, from 
another angle, they were incredibly beautiful.

I put the photographs back in the envelope and put them in his desk 
drawer. Oh, I didn't want to. I had beads of sweat along the line of 
the moustache I used to have. Of course I didn't want to. But I put 
them back. The image, that of the first snapshot, was burned into a 
screen at the back of my brain. I had a heart murmur. I was 
intoxicated. And I became obsessed.

I found out where Eric lived. Hey, it was in the phone book. I parked 
and waited and didn't see her and came back the next day and did it 
again, and didn't see her again. This was exceptionally stupid and 
personally embarrassing. And inconvenient and difficult to explain. 
Did I forget to mention that I was married myself?

Thus, being an intelligent man, I put it from my mind. But not for 
long. Not even an hour. I was addicted. I had to...well, I didn't know 
what I had to do, but I knew I had to do something. I sat down to 
formulate a plan for how to meet her. In the flesh. Aargh. Don't say 
flesh. Don't even think it.

I could not come up with a plan. My brain was unable to function. For 
three days I wrestled with the futility of my position. My nerves, 
which were functioning at full speed in place of my brain, screamed 
warnings at me. No more coffee, they transmitted. More sleep. Get a 
life, they said. And, overlaying all, they forecast utter disaster. Or 
maybe that was my instincts.

In the end, I did the simple thing. I drove to her house when her 
husband was at work and rang the door bell. She answered it. Well, 
that was fine. Trouble was, that was the end of the simple plan. I had 
no idea what to do next.

When in trouble, go back to basics. I introduced myself. She smiled 
nervously, hand on the door frame blocking entrance. What next? I 
opened my mouth and let words fall out.

"I need to talk to you," I said. It must have sounded nervous. I was 
nervous. I know I looked nervous.

She said nothing and she also looked nervous.

"It's about Eric," I said.

"You know Eric?" She seemed relieved.

"I work with Eric."

"Oh." She looked much more relieved. "Of course. Now I remember your 
name." She stood aside from the door. "You'd better come in." She 
stopped and looked nervous again. "Is anything wrong with Eric?"

"No no," I said hastily. "He's fine."

"So what do you want to talk about?"

I winced. I had no idea. I was making it up on the fly. "It's very 
complex," I said. "It will take time to explain."

"Then you'd better come in," she said, standing aside to let me pass. 
She wasn't as tall as I had imagined. In fact she was quite small. 
Very neat and tidy, though, and on her chest the objects of my 
admiration projected substantially, her dominant feature. She had 
sandy-coloured hair. I'd only seen it wet in photographs.

We sat, she on a couch and me in an armchair. She leaned forward and 
her breasts followed gravity and swelled out the fabric of the green 
cotton blouse. Knees together, tanned legs, lean and neat in a skirt 
which came to knee length when she was standing and lower thigh when 
she was sitting. Little brown flat shoes, sandy hair falling to her 
shoulders, and hands knitted together in her lap. She wore a little 
frown and she was waiting for me to speak.

"Eric doesn't know I'm here," I began. Her frown deepened. "I hope he 
doesn't find out that I came." Now she was narrowing her eyes. "I have 
no valid reason for being here." She was looking distinctly alarmed. 
"But I am absolutely harmless. I need to talk to you for my own peace 
of mind and I seek your indulgence for a couple of minutes."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." She spoke slowly, 
considering her options, weighing up the circumstances, unhappy and 
looking for a way out. She flicked a glance at the telephone on the 
other side of the room.

"I saw your photo and I had to see you," I jabbered.

"Photo? What photo?"

"In Eric's desk drawer. I saw it by accident but I can't forget it. 
You were...um, topless."

She sat still, unmoving, staring at me. Then she flicked her eyes back 
to the telephone again. I could almost hear the gears of her brain 
moving. She was trying to decide if I was dangerous.

"I'm not dangerous," I said simply.

"What do you want?" she asked with trepidation.

"Nothing. I knew I just had to see you, meet you, talk to you. Since I 
saw your photo I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. I want 
my life back."

"So that's it? You've met me. Is that it?"

"That's all."

She sat back in the couch. "This is pretty weird," she said. She was 
catching up with it now and she wasn't panicking any more. "Aren't you 
married?"

"Yes. With two kids."

"Then you shouldn't be here."

"I know."

She leaned forward again. "You didn't...ah, keep the photo, did you?"

"No. I put it back."

"So Eric doesn't know you saw it."

"No."

"Look," she said. "It was just a holiday snapshot. No big deal."

"Except that I think you have the most beautifully perfect breasts I 
have ever seen."

She blushed visibly. "You shouldn't be saying that to me," she said.

"It's true."

She regarded me steadily. "I think it's time for you to go now," she 
said.

I stood up. "Certainly," I agreed. "Thank you for listening. This has 
been the most embarrassing thing I've ever done and I have no 
reasonable explanation for it."

She saw me to the door. "Anyway," she said, "thanks for the 
compliment. I guess."

I turned on the path and looked at her framed in the doorway. Petite, 
pretty, prominent bosom, perfect. "One more thing," I said.

"Yes?"

"I think you are absolutely gorgeous."

Again she blushed fiercely. She was about to say something, thought 
better of it and closed the door.

Six days later she tapped me on the shoulder in the street. I was 
watching a street demonstration about planning issues for no 
particular reason but that I was passing by. She smiled brightly at 
me, as though we were old friends who had met casually.

"So you said nothing to Eric," I said to her, because that was 
uppermost in my mind.

She blinked in surprise. "I didn't."

"Thanks."

She looked at me uncertainly. "You're a very weird guy," she said.

"Not really. I just got addicted to your photograph."

There was a little smile behind her eyes. "And now you're cured?"

"Not a bit," I said. "I have to do cold turkey. Which I was doing fine 
until you turned up here today." I pointed to a coffee house two doors 
away. "Coffee?"

She looked at the shop and then back at me. "Okay," she said.

At a little table for two she sat and studied me. I felt the impact of 
it. She was wearing a brown dress and there was just enough cleavage 
to keep drawing my eyes to it.

"So," I said, "why are you having coffee with me? In your place I 
wouldn't." 

"Don't know," she said. "It's sort of interesting, I guess. I never 
know what you're going to say next. Everything's a surprise."

"So," I said, "why didn't you tell Eric? In your place I would."

"Don't know. He's a pretty jealous sort of guy and I guess I didn't 
want trouble."

"For me or for you?"

"Both, I guess."

"So you won't be telling him we had coffee."

"No."

"Isn't that verging on dangerous?"

"I don't see how," she said. "It's just coffee. And anyway, that 
photograph. Look, I've got to tell you I've been going topless on 
beaches since I was 15. It's no big deal."

"You total hussy."

She blushed. She made a habit of it. "Don't embarrass me," she said. 
"I know I have a reasonable figure."

"Reasonable? That would be a big understatement."

"Well, anyway, I'm not ashamed of it."

"Fine. Best news I've heard for a week. Maybe there's a chance after 
all."

"Chance? What chance?"

"That you'll show me your breasts."

"Stop that."

"Why? You've shown them to a few hundred men on the beach. You're not 
even outraged I've seen your photograph. I'm just one more man. As you 
said, no big deal."

"There is a world of difference, and you know it."

"Only if you tell your husband."

She stood up sharply from the table. "You've done it again," she said 
accusingly, looking down at me. "By even suggesting such a thing, 
you've compromised me hopelessly. I never want to speak to you again." 
She walked out.

A fortnight or so later I was working the room at a company function 
just as I was supposed to do and I saw Eric talking animatedly in the 
corner and just as I was watching him, speculating, Eric's wife hove 
into view immediately in front of me. "I wondered if you'd be here," 
she said.

"Wow," I said without thinking. She had a habit of doing that to me. 
"What a dress."

"Don't stare so obviously," she said. But again she was wearing that 
little ghost of a smile.

"You know I'm obsessed. I've already confessed to it. No bra?"

She closed her eyes as if in pain. "Why do I feel as if I'm back in 
high school?" She opened her eyes again. "It could be strapless, you 
know."

"But it's not."

"No."

"I thought you were never going to speak to me again."

"Sounds like a good plan. Is your wife here?"

"She hates these things. So do I, in truth."

"It is a bit dull," she agreed, looking around.

"We could spice it up."

"I don't think I want to hear this."

"Hear what?"

"Whatever you were about to suggest." She looked at me apprehensively. 
"If you are going to keep acting like a bull in a china shop, I'll 
walk away. Why do you have to be so abrupt?"

I scratched my ear. "Very good question. Usually I'm not like that at 
all."

"I know. That's why I keep talking to you when, God knows, I should 
not. You're an attractive guy who's happily married, so they say, and 
you just don't need to put on this sort of performance."

I sighed. "That's just it. If I behaved normally I wouldn't get to say 
one single thing to you. I'd never have met you, seen you. We're here 
right now because of my abnormal behaviour."

"You're hopeless."

"I know," I agreed sadly.

"It's impossible. What are you trying to achieve?"

I looked into her eyes. "I want to see your breasts."

She blushed but recovered herself quickly. "I should have expected 
that," she muttered. "Why do I talk to you?"

"I don't know. In your place, I wouldn't."

"I have to go," she said. She opened her handbag, extracted an 
envelope and held it out for me. "I don't know why I'm doing this. 
Don't open it now." I took it and she walked away, joining her 
husband.

I didn't look at it then. I had another drink and talked for a few 
minutes and I slipped away and went into my office. I opened the 
envelope and slid out the photograph I knew was inside. It was her but 
she looked a little different. Her hair was different. She looked a 
little younger. It was a quality photograph, not a snapshot, taken in 
a studio by a professional hand. She had a towel around her waist, her 
hair was wet and drops of water clung to her bare breasts. She looked 
like she had just climbed out of the shower, and I guess that was the 
intention of the picture. I had thought her breasts perfect. Now that 
I had the chance to see her in a skilled photograph, I knew it to be 
true.

I answered my telephone the very next day and she was on the line. 
"This is a plot," I said to her. "You are trying to drive me insane so 
your husband can get my job."

She laughed. "You asked for it."

"It's the best photograph ever taken. Thank you."

"I had it done two years ago. I was toying with the idea of becoming a 
model."

"You should have."

"It's actually really hard work. And lots of pressure. It makes you 
very selfish."

"The world's loss and my gain."

"I rang to let you know it's the end of it. No more. A little parting 
gift to help you with your problem. No more meetings. No more 
suggestions. Is that clear?"

"Thank you for the parting gift."

Four days later I rang her. She seemed happy to hear from me. She told 
me a long story about her cat which went missing for two days but had 
just come home.

"So," I said when she had finished. "Let's do lunch."

"When?"

"Today. In one hour."

"Eric's away today. But you would know that."

"Yes. What do you say?"

"Okay. Where?"

"I'll be there to pick you up in 45 minutes."

"Okay."

I was there in 45 minutes but she was not. I was resigned to her 
sudden cold feet when her car pulled into the driveway. "Sorry," she 
said, brushing past me to open the door of the house. "The cat. She 
had two bad cuts and I had to get her vaccinated." I followed her 
inside. "I haven't had time to get ready. Give me 10 minutes. I'll 
have a shower and throw some clothes on."

"A shower." I said it heavily, the photograph at the front entrance to 
my brain.

She stopped in the hallway, half turned and looked at me over her 
shoulder. I said nothing. She said nothing. Seconds passed. Then she 
turned away and moved down the corridor. I sat down in the armchair 
I'd used when first I visited and waited.  After a while I heard a 
door shut in another part of the house. Then I heard her say: "Is this 
what you had in mind?" 

I turned my head. She was standing in the doorway to the room, wearing 
a towel around her waist, her hands grasping each side of the door 
frame. Her hair was wet and her bare breasts dripped water. "That's 
it," I said calmly. "That's it exactly."

"I don't know why I'm doing this," she said. Her breasts, naturally, 
were perfect. Red-brown nipples stuck out boldly.

"Because you know how much I want you to," I said.

"I guess that must be it." She looked so calm, almost tranquil and 
languid. She knew very well what she was doing. For some lucky reason 
she was turned on by my attentions and I was confident I could take 
further advantage.

"Now," I said, "it's time to take away the towel."

"No way," she said. "That's another thing altogether."

"It is," I agreed. "Take it off."

She said nothing and did nothing. I rose from the chair and walked 
slowly to her. I could hear her breathing and the world's best chest 
was rising and falling gently with it. I reached out and took away the 
towel and she didn't move a muscle to stop me. I lifted the towel to 
my face and felt and smelled the damp warmth of it. She watched 
expressionlessly but with a dull look in her eyes. I knew that look. 
Lust, it was called. This race was run and won.  

You know something? When the chips fell she wasn't so good. In fact 
she was on the dead side of the margin between good and bad. Not near 
as good as my wife. No comparison. I mean, she looked gorgeous and she 
was gorgeous and it was an honour and a privilege and all that. But 
when you got down to it, she was a bit of damp squib. She rang me the 
next day, sensible again and scared out of her mind. Swear not to 
talk, she said. I swore. Swear never again, she said. I swore. Give me 
back my photo, she said. I refused point blank. She rang off. 

I'd seen her, I'd had her and I was satisfied. I rang my wife and 
asked her to accompany me to dinner that night. She was surprised and 
happy. I was happy too. Her breasts were only average but she was good 
company and she was good in bed. Hey ho. Life goes on.