You Finish Weeing

You wait until the video ends, the woman smiling into the camera as the last line of text fades away. You lock your phone, set it on the windowsill, and reach for the toilet roll. A quick wipe, the paper soft against your skin, and you drop it into the bowl before flushing.

Trousers and knickers pulled back into place, you wash your hands, the warm water and faint lemon scent of the soap rinsing away the moment.

The rest of the evening moves in its familiar rhythm, plates cleared after dinner, the kitchen wiped down, and a quick shower to wash off the day. You keep it simple, hair dry, just the warmth of the water over your shoulders before you step out and wrap yourself in a towel.

Later, you slide into bed beside Tom. He turns, kisses you softly on the lips, a warm, familiar press that smells faintly of toothpaste, then settles back onto his pillow. Within minutes, his breathing evens, the rise and fall of his chest steady in the low light.

You lie there a while longer, staring at the ceiling. The muted glow from your phone on the bedside table catches your eye, and without meaning to, the memory of that video drifts back, the words, the way she looked into the camera.

You close your eyes, push it aside, and wait for sleep to come.