“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in two five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like shooting free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
The best way to cut the woman down to size would be to flirt with her husband.
It couldn’t be done publicly—at least, not at first. That would be recognized for what it was, a simple and ineffective strike in retaliation. It needed to begin as something private, so that when the inevitable exposure came there would be repercussions. There had to be secrets to uncover. There was nothing more insatiable than the court’s lust for secrets.
“Lust is the right word, too,” Geraldine muttered to herself.
But she stopped herself after a time. This was a game she had played before—the simple meeting, the unplanned encounter, the moment of shared embarrassment, the deniable but undeniable rush of desire carefully cultivated to be equal parts forbidden and alluring. She had taken husbands before. It would not be hard to do so again. But for some reason her heart wasn’t in it … something inside told her to wait.
The answer came in a rush three weeks later.
“Not her husband. Her son,” said Geraldine in their carriage. The idea had struck her down like a thunderbolt on a clear day.
“What’s that, dear?” Asked her husband.
Could she do it? He was young, but he was a man, wasn’t he? Barring an interest in other men, shouldn’t he function much the same way?
“Nothing, nothing,” she said.
She’d never taken someone’s son before. The thought made her feel old for a moment, a feeling that she immediately extracted and dispensed with.
“Her son’s name is Bartholomew,” said her husband, continuing to examine his paper.
“You always know what I’m thinking, dear.” Geraldine rewarded him with a smile.
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