May returns home

May unlocked the door to her dimly lit apartment. The weight of what she had done pressed down on her as she stepped inside. The house was empty, the silence almost oppressive. She slipped off her shoes and set her bag down by the door. The clock on the wall ticked softly. 7 pm. Roger still wasn’t home. And with not even a text or a call to say he’d be late—again. It was absurd to be angry at him for it given what she’d just done, but she was. She had lost count of how many nights she waited for him alone in the living room. His absence bothered her once, but lately it had become the norm.

She paused at the end of the hallway. It was the thought of the afternoon that made her angry. That realization filled her with shame. Elliott was nobody, just a random stranger in a gallery, and she had ruined her marriage for him. But at the same time, a part of her was still thrilled.

May made her way into the living room as if she could somehow walk off her emotions. When she reached the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed. She looked different than she had that afternoon and it unsettled her.

She sighed and turned away from the mirror, pulling off her blouse and tossing it onto the bed. Her bra was still somewhere in his studio. Her fingers moved mechanically as she undressed, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the room. When she was down to her underwear, she padded into the bathroom. The cool tiles beneath her feet grounding her just a little. With a quick turn of the faucet the water rushed out from the showerhead. The sound of the cascade filled their sterile little bathroom.

As she waited for the water to heat up, she caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Guilt flickered in her eyes. But when her eyes trailed down her body, to the lingering marks of passion on her skin, she felt herself shiver. Long ago she had realized it wasn’t vain to know she was pretty, but here, naked in her own home, freshly fucked and not bothering to hide it, she saw that she was beautiful. Her stomach churned.

With a deep breath she stepped into the shower. The scalding water washed away the tension that had been building inside her. She leaned against the cool tiles and closed her eyes to let the steam soothe her skin.

She shouldn’t have done it. She knew that. The rational part of her screamed that she had made a terrible mistake, that she had betrayed the man she had promised to love and cherish. But as she had told Elliott this afternoon, she was an artist, and had an artist’s irrational soul.

In a sense her choice today had been perfectly rational. She had wanted to feel alive and for one afternoon she had taken what she wanted without concern for the consequences. There was a heat inside her still, hotter than the water. Her body responded to the memory of him. She ran her hands through her wet hair. Beneath the surface of her skin desire was thrumming. It was like the events of the afternoon hadn’t been enough for her.