The Interview
"His green card depends on the next hour. The immigration officer separates him from his wife for questioning. She knows his marriage is real—she just wants to see how far he'll go."
The waiting room smells like fear and floor polish.
I've been sitting here for two hours with Sarah, my wife, both of us clutching our folder of evidence. Photos of us together. Joint bank statements. The lease with both our names. Proof that our marriage is real.
Because it is real.
We met at a conference three years ago. Started dating. Fell in love. Got married in her parents' backyard in Connecticut. Everything about us is legitimate.
But I was born in Lagos, and that makes everything complicated.
"Marcus Adeyemi?" A woman's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Room 4. Alone."
Sarah squeezes my hand. "It's just protocol. They separate couples. It's normal."
"I know."
I don't feel like it's normal.
I walk toward Room 4.
Officer Tamara Williams is not what I expected.
She's tall—almost my height—with skin dark as mine and a body that doesn't match her severe uniform. She's athletic, broad-shouldered, with arms that suggest she spends her mornings in a gym. But under the starched shirt, there are curves. Full breasts. A waist that tapers. Hips that the uniform can't quite hide.
She's beautiful. And terrifying.
"Sit," she says. Not a request.
I sit.
The room is small. One table, two chairs, a camera mounted in the corner. She sits across from me, opens my file, and doesn't look up.
"Marriage date: June fifteenth, two years ago. You met at a tech conference in Austin. Your wife is Sarah Adeyemi, née Patterson. She's in marketing. You're in software development."
"That's correct."
"You applied for adjustment of status fourteen months ago. This interview is the final step before approval or denial of your green card." She finally looks up. Her eyes are dark brown, sharp, missing nothing. "You understand what's at stake?"
"I understand."
"Good." She closes the file. "Tell me about your wedding night."
The question catches me off guard.
"Excuse me?"
"Your wedding night. After the ceremony. What happened?"
This isn't in the list of questions they told me to expect. I was prepared for dates and addresses. Places we've traveled. Our daily routines.
Not this.
"We... went to a hotel. The Marriott downtown. We'd been up since five AM for the ceremony, so we were exhausted. We ordered room service, watched bad TV, and fell asleep."
"You didn't consummate the marriage that night?"
My face heats. "We were tired."
"When did you consummate it?"
"The next morning."
"Describe it."
"I don't—is this relevant?"
"Everything is relevant, Mr. Adeyemi." She leans forward. "Fraudulent marriages often fail to address physical intimacy convincingly. If your marriage is real, you should be able to discuss it."
I take a breath. "We woke up around nine. The sunlight was coming through the curtains. She was wearing this—this white nightgown her mother gave her. I told her she looked beautiful. She kissed me. And then..."
"And then?"
"We made love." The words feel strange in this clinical room. "For about an hour. Then we ordered breakfast."
Officer Williams writes something down. I can't tell if she believes me.
"Your wife is white," she says.
"Yes."
"Her family approved of the marriage?"
"Her parents love me. Her extended family... varies."
"Does that bother you?"
"Does racism bother me? Yes. But I love Sarah. That's what matters."
She studies me. Long enough that I start to feel like evidence.
"I'm going to ask you a series of intimate questions," she says. "Your answers will be compared against your wife's. Any discrepancies will be flagged for further investigation. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"What side of the bed does your wife sleep on?"
"Left."
"What's her morning routine?"
"Shower, coffee, news. In that order. She can't function without coffee."
"What birth control do you use?"
"She has an IUD."
"How often do you have sex?"
"Two or three times a week. More when we're not stressed."
"What's her favorite position?"
My throat tightens. "Is that—"
"Answer the question."
"On top. She likes to be on top."
"Do you perform oral sex on her?"
"Yes."
"Does she perform oral sex on you?"
"Yes."
"Has she ever—"
"Stop." I hold up my hand. "I understand you need to verify our relationship. But this feels like something else."
Officer Williams goes very still.
"Something else?"
"Like you're enjoying this."
The silence stretches. The camera hums in the corner. I've just accused a federal officer of impropriety during my green card interview.
This is either the smartest or the stupidest thing I've ever done.
She stands.
Walks to the camera. Reaches up and switches it off.
"Mr. Adeyemi." She turns back to face me. "You're more perceptive than most."
"What's happening?"
"Your marriage is real. I knew that from your file. Your photos, your finances, your joint insurance policies—everything checks out." She walks toward me. Slowly. "The interview is a formality. I could approve you right now."
"Then why—"
"Because I wanted to see something." She stops beside my chair. Looks down at me with those dark, sharp eyes. "I wanted to see if you'd push back. Most people in your position are too afraid. They answer anything. Do anything. Whatever the person with power demands."
"I'm not most people."
"No." Her hand finds my shoulder. "You're not."
"What do you want?" I ask.
It's the same question I asked about the interview. But we both know the meaning has changed.
"I want you to understand something." She moves closer. Her thigh brushes my arm. "I've been doing this job for twelve years. Processing applications. Denying applications. Watching people's futures slip through my fingers because of paperwork."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is." Her hand slides from my shoulder to my jaw, tilting my face up. "I see hundreds of people every month. Most of them blur together. But occasionally... occasionally someone sits in that chair and looks at me like I'm not just a uniform. Like I'm a woman."
"You're a very beautiful woman."
"I know." She smiles. It transforms her face—makes her look younger, hungrier. "Your wife is in the other room, Mr. Adeyemi. Answering questions about your relationship. Questions I already know the answers to."
"How long will that take?"
"As long as I need it to."
She leans down and kisses me.
Her lips are soft. Demanding.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, and when her tongue finds mine, I forget where I am. Forget the camera. Forget the file. Forget everything except the woman who's pulling me to my feet, pressing her athletic body against mine.
"This is insane," I breathe.
"Probably." She unbuttons her uniform shirt. Underneath: a sports bra straining to contain her. "But you're going to do it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because I can see you want to. Because your cock is hard against my thigh. Because you've been imagining what I look like under this uniform since you walked in." She unclasps the bra, lets it fall. "Am I wrong?"
She's not wrong.
Her breasts are perfect—full, firm, dark nipples already hard. Her stomach is flat, muscled, the kind of definition that comes from hours of work. She's built like an athlete, but curved like a fantasy.
"Touch me," she commands. "Show me what you'd do if I wasn't the one deciding your future."
I grab her waist and pull her against me.
We collide.
Kissing, groping, pulling at clothes. Her uniform pants hit the floor. Her underwear follows. She's not shaved—a neat triangle of dark hair—and when my fingers find her, she's already wet.
"Yes," she hisses. "Right there."
I slide two fingers inside her. She gasps, grabs my shoulders, grinds against my hand. She's tight and hot and gripping me like she'll never let go.
"Harder—fuck—make me feel it—"
I give her harder. Curl my fingers, find the spot that makes her cry out. She's strong—she lifts herself against my hand, rides my fingers, her whole body shaking.
"I'm going to—" She's panting now. "Going to come on your hand—is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"Then watch."
She throws her head back and shatters.
Her pussy clenches around my fingers. Her body convulses, all that athletic muscle trembling as she screams. I hold her up—she's heavy with muscle, solid and real—and work her through it until she's gasping.
"Table," she commands. "Now."
She shoves everything off the table.
My file hits the floor. Her pen. The recording equipment. It all scatters as she hoists herself onto the surface and spreads her legs.
"Your turn."
I unbuckle my belt, push down my pants. Her eyes go to my cock—wide, appreciative.
"Impressive, Mr. Adeyemi."
"Marcus."
"Marcus." She reaches out, wraps her hand around me. Strokes slowly. "Your wife is a lucky woman."
"Right now, you're the lucky one."
She grins. "Prove it."
I step between her thighs and thrust inside.
She's tight. Strong. Her muscles grip me as I fill her, her legs wrapping around my waist to pull me deeper.
"Fuck—that's it—"
I start to move.
She matches me stroke for stroke—athletic, powerful, slamming her hips against mine. The table shakes. Her breasts bounce. She grabs the edge for leverage and takes everything I give her.
"Harder—God—don't hold back—"
I grab her hips and let go.
Pound into her while she screams. While the table protests. While her whole body arches and her eyes roll back. She's coming again—I can feel it, the way she clenches around me—but she doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down.
"More—more—"
I flip her over.
She bends over the table, spreads her legs, looks back at me with those fierce dark eyes.
"Don't stop until I tell you."
I slam into her from behind.
She screams—loud, shameless—and I fuck her like both our futures depend on it. Her ass bounces against my hips. Her hands scramble for purchase on the slick surface. She's coming continuously now, wave after wave, her body one long shudder of pleasure.
"I'm going to—" I'm close. So close.
"Inside me—fill me up—"
I explode.
Pump into her while she shakes, while she screams, while the federal immigration office echoes with sounds it was never meant to hear.
We collapse against the table.
Breathing. Trembling. Neither of us able to move.
Later, we straighten ourselves.
She fixes her uniform. I fix my clothes. The file goes back together like nothing happened.
"Your green card will be approved within thirty days," Officer Williams says. All business again, like she didn't just ride me on her desk. "Congratulations on your successful marriage."
"Thank you, Officer."
"Tamara." She hands me a card. Her personal number on the back. "For any... follow-up questions."
I pocket the card. "And if I don't call?"
"Then you're a man who loves his wife." She smiles—warm this time, genuine. "Which is what I thought from the beginning. This was just... bonus verification."
I leave Room 4.
Sarah is waiting in the hallway, clutching her own folder.
"How did it go?" she asks.
I look back at the closed door. At the life I almost stepped into, the line I almost crossed, the woman who tested something I didn't know I had.
"I think we're going to be just fine."
I take my wife's hand.
We walk out into the American sunlight.