I wrote this story ten years ago. It was runner-up in the Reader’s Digest 100-word story competition 2013. It has exactly 100 words.

Covet

You stand in the corner, silent. Your legs, your arms, your back all curve luxuriously, stealing space. You are taunting me. Teasing me.

Come. Closer. Caress.

Covet.

I circle you, regarding with giddy wonder the graceful whorls and lattices traced intricately in the small of your glorious back. I long to possess you, run my devouring hand over and down, under and in.

There are others in the room, but I see only you. I must have you.

I succumb. I surrender.

I sit.

“I’ll take it,” I say.

“Such a beautiful chair, Ma’am,” says the salesperson. “Cash or credit?”