The Missing Piece by Kevin Egan

faint imprint of her lips on the rim.
    She may have dozed. She may have slipped again into deep, transporting thoughts. She could not be sure. What she did know was that when she heard Hugh come in the front door the book was facedown on her lap and the movie credits were rolling up the screen.
    She reopened the book and listened to Hugh’s progress: the thud of his briefcase, the squeak of his shoes heading into the kitchen, the solid tick of a heavy-bottomed glass on the granite counter, the clatter of ice, the glubbing sound of bourbon and air fighting past each other in the neck of the bottle. Silence then, until he peeked in and said, “There you are,” and sat beside her with half a cushion between them. His shoes were off, his tie gone. Wisps of dark chest hair curled over the exposed V of his T-shirt.
    â€œAre you ready for the trial?” said Linda.
    â€œI am now,” said Hugh. “The associates flew out today, which left me a big chunk of time to work on my opening statement.”
    He took a healthy slug of bourbon and settled back to describe his work process, which she had heard many times but did not prevent him from explaining again. He never wrote out his opening statements because a tightly written script sounded stiff in its delivery. He preferred only a general sense of what he needed to say; how he said it was a game-time decision, dependent upon what the plaintiff’s attorney had said and what vibe he felt from the jury.
    â€œAnd you’re still leaving tomorrow?” said Linda.
    â€œI need the weekend for final witness prep and to coordinate with local counsel on an in limine motion set for Monday morning.” Hugh drained the rest of his drink. “A trial is like a play. You judges don’t get to see the rehearsals, the rewrites, the cast changes.”
    He rattled the ice in his glass. “You want another?”
    â€œNo,” she said. She had not drank the first glass. She had swirled an ounce of wine in the glass, then kissed the rim before pouring it into the sink.
    He took the wineglass into the kitchen, fixed himself another drink, and returned.
    â€œGood book?” he said.
    â€œSome interesting parallels between her life and her fiction, but I prefer the fiction.”
    He removed the book from her hand, flipped it away, and snuggled against her. He was distracted when consumed with his work, playful when not. And whenever he felt playful, he wondered why she did not feel playful, as well. She tried to relax, stroking the stubble of his cheek as he nuzzled her shoulder. Mountain-time, she had called him during their original dating days, because his five o’clock shadow seemed to arrive by three.
    â€œHugh,” she said, breathier than she wanted to sound.
    He mumbled, somehow reached the glass out to the coffee table without his cheek retreating from her neck. And then his hand slipped beneath her and worked between the cushion and her ass. Their circling before sex had lost its spontaneity, but the hand squeezing her ass was the one unmistakable sign of what Hugh wanted.
    Oh great, she thought. He hadn’t approached her or shown her any affection since, well, since that night , and now, because she needed to have a serious discussion, he turned amorous, which meant he’d get mad if she turned him down and they would spend another night lying side by side, separate psyches in the same bed, each waiting for the other to fall asleep.
    Still, as much as she tried to relax so that she could buy time, she stiffened.
    â€œSomething up, Lindy?” he whispered.
    It was her turn to mumble. But she could not resist a shrug and, despite being two people who earned their living by bending words, they were highly attuned to each other’s body language. Hugh felt that tiny shrug. He lifted his head off her shoulder, pulled his hand from her ass.
    â€œSharon called me in first thing this morning. The Appellate Division is about