Excuses, Excuses

He was on his way out when she stopped him for one last hug.

“Call me ‘Traffic’,” she said, tucked under his chin and wrapped in his embrace.

“What? I don’t —”

“Just say it. Like it’s my name.”

He was puzzled but willing to please. “Um… Bye, Traffic. I love you, Traffic. See you tonight, Traffic.”

She looked up at him, beaming. “Perfect.”

She took his briefcase, set it down, then sank to her knees. Practiced fingers began to work at his trousers.

“If anyone asks you why you’re late to work,” she said, tugging his undershorts down, “Just tell them that Traffic sucked.”

— Frenulum