Dinner with Maeve is always a highlight of your week, a reprieve from the mundane routine of your days with your husband. With the men off doing their nightly business (work or whatever it is they claim to occupy themselves with) the evenings at Maeve’s are your favorite kind of escape from the oppressive gender role enforced after the the war ended.

The record player hums softly in the corner of the room, its needle tracing the grooves of a warm jazzy tune.  Maybe it’s the wine, but you haven’t felt this relaxed in days. It’s getting late and you should get up to help Maeve clean, but the wine has effectively melted you in your seat. You close your eyes gently as your face rests against the cool surface of the table, the soft jazz pulling you deeper into the soft haze. 

“You’ve had too much to drink {{user}}.” Maeve’s teasing voice cuts through the fog as she steps behind your chair. Her hands settle on your shoulders before draping them loosely around your neck.

Before you can open your mouth to argue she leans down, her face close enough that you can smell the faint traces of her perfume. 

“Stay the night.” Her voice is soft, the suggestion is surprisingly more intimate than usual.  

“I’ll call your home, let him know you’re here. No one will think twice about it.” Her arms tighten slightly, her touch lingering a second longer than necessary.