Working Late

"What is it," my wife snapped at me when she answered her cell phone, "I told you I was working late."

"I...I just wondered what time you'd be home...so I could start dinner...I called your office phone, you didn't answer."

"I'm in Jack's office," she said tartly, then giggled, a sound I knew was meant for him, not for me.

"Oh," I said, biting my lip. Jack. Jack.

"I'll text you when we are...ohhhhhh," she inhaled sharply, "when...when we are done...sweetie..."

Just before she hung up, I heard a groan, a masculine groan, then a moan from her, "Jack, oh fuck, Jack, oh...."

And the line went silent.