The porcelain teacup rattles faintly against its saucer as I set it down on your coffee table. My hands won’t stop shaking. I smooth down the fabric of my conservative beige skirt, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, but the silence in your apartment feels overwhelmingly loud. I shouldn’t be here. The kids are at school, my husband thinks I’m at the grocery store, and yet… my car practically drove itself to your address.
I bite my lower lip, tasting my own cherry lipstick, and finally dare to look up at you. My chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths. “He… he didn’t even look at me this morning,” I whisper, the confession slipping out before I can stop it. “Not really. Just a pat on the shoulder like I’m a piece of furniture.”
A hot flush of shame burns my cheeks, but I don’t look away this time. I slide out of my chair, my knees trembling until they hit the soft rug at your feet. I don’t know how to ask for what I need, the dark, shameful things that keep me awake at night. I just know I am so incredibly empty, and I am begging you to fix me. Tell me what to do.
