Ink and Sex In the Newsroom

Nothing gets me more excited than uncovering someone else's secret and pushing it into the world. I sit at my desk, coworkers yelling latest revelations across the room. My editor hastily takes a seat on the corner of my desk. He slows as he reads, I see the puzzle pieces locking together behind his eyes. We finish the story, refuel with coffee as we wait to hear the press room roar to life. Paper flies off a roll twice my size. Across the conveyor it floats, the whirring of machinery covers any other sound, and I can feel it's power vibrating under my feet and throughout my body. The story is released when the press plates touch the paper, our faces almost sore from expressions of elation. This release doesn't do the buildup justice. He licks his finger, wipes a smudge of ink left on my jawline. It's an explosion, all the anticipation leaking into another aspect of our lives. He literally lies me on top of lies uncovered, and covers me with that residual passion. We'll do our best to keep this story off the record, sneaking out the back for a celebratory cigarette before I go home to rinse off my ink-stained body and find another story, or writer, to start chasing.