Here’s another 150 word story. I don’t recall the criteria here, but I guess it was the word ‘furtive’, which immediately takes my mind back to what it must have been like living among Art Deco.

“My dearest Sir Hubert,” she whispered, “I must confess to you my true feelings—”
“Lady Penelope, there is no need.”
“But there is.” She tipped the glass, moistened her lips and began. “Before you go, I must speak what my heart feels. For too long I have been furtive, conniving to keep from you my deepest desires for fear it may shatter our fragile friendship; for fear it may drive you into the arms of another.”
“That could never—”
“Ssshhh,” she drew closer, a tingle of anticipation rippled through her, and her eyes grew damp. “In a week I shall be fifty-nine; how the frequency of passing years increases the older one becomes. How short they become.”
“My dear Penelope.”
“I must ask you one question before you leave.”
Tender fingertips traced her cheek, brushing aside her tears, “Anything.”
“I suppose a shag’s out of the question?”