𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙰𝚏𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛. (𝙾𝚗𝚎)

★
1988
New York City
Word Count: 8.4k

You sat in your kitchen, the familiar surroundings offering a kind of false comfort as you sipped a steaming cup of chamomile tea. The warm, fragrant liquid slid down your throat, but it did little to soothe the unease twisting inside you. The television, perched on the countertop, flickered with images from last night's show—his show. You told yourself you shouldn't watch it, that it would only make things worse, but your hand reached for the remote and pressed play anyway.

Outside, the night was alive with the rhythmic chirping of crickets, their song filling the quiet spaces in your home. The darkness beyond your window felt heavy, as if the night itself was pressing in on you. You leaned back against the cool kitchen counter, your legs crossed, trying to relax, but your gaze was fixed on the screen. There he was, his smile confident, his presence commanding as always. But tonight, something about the way his so-called "dancer" grabbed him, kissed him on the lips like she had every right, made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

You knew you shouldn't feel like this—not when you were married. But logic didn't seem to matter when it came to him. This was the man you'd been entangled with for two years, after all. Every time you saw him, every time he touched you, it felt like a lifeline in the middle of a suffocating existence. But now? Now it felt like that lifeline was fraying, unraveling in front of your eyes.

You took another sip of your tea, letting the chamomile linger on your tongue, its floral notes doing little to chase away the bitterness rising in your throat. The news segment switched to discussing the "incident," as they called it. But you knew it wasn't just some incident. You knew him too well. This was him being careless, reckless, never thinking about the consequences, about you.

With a heavy sigh, you placed the mug on the counter behind you, the sound of ceramic meeting marble too loud in the quiet kitchen. You started unbuttoning your red blouse, the fabric clinging to your skin after a long, exhausting day. Your feet ached as you kicked off your heels, the cool tile floor beneath you a small relief from the tension winding tighter inside you.

Then, the familiar sound of keys rattling in the front door lock broke through your thoughts. The door creaked open, and in walked your husband of five years. The man you'd vowed to love and cherish, but who now felt like a distant memory, a shadow of what you once had.

He closed the door softly, locking it with a practiced motion before hanging his keys on the hook by the door. His briefcase landed with a dull thud on the recliner as he loosened his tie with a weary sigh. You watched him from the kitchen, your stomach twisting with guilt and something else—something you didn't want to name.

"Hey, babe," he greeted you, walking over with a tired smile. His arm wrapped around your waist, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek, his lips warm and familiar. But it felt different now. You couldn't shake the image of him on the screen, couldn't shake the feeling that everything was slipping through your fingers.