Page 1 of If He Hadn't Cheated
1
The sunlight hits first. Too bright. Too cruel. The kind of light that feels like punishment, like God's spotlight demanding I account for last night's sins.
I groan, twisting away from it. My face burrows into a pillow that reeks of cologne, sweat, and something sweet but sour, like guilt dressed in cheap aftershave.
My lashes are stuck together, tacky with last night’s mascara. One spike stabs the corner of my eye when I blink, dragging me painfully into consciousness.My head throbs with the force of a heartbeat that doesn’t feel like mine. The taste of last nights Tequila and mint gum coat my tongue, sickly and sour. The tang of sweat is sticky on my thighs, and my hair is a rat’s nest of perfume and heat.
Under the sheets, someone stirs beside me, a faceless man, his chest rising and falling, one arm thrown casually across my waist like I belong to him.
I stare at the ceiling fan, watching it spin like it’s mocking me.
Who is he?
I try to remember. Scraps come back in a mess of color and sound. Red and violet club lights. Bass so heavy it rattled my ribs. Bodies grinding against mine, their heat more numbing than the coke I’d lined in the club bathroom. His voice in my ear, raspy, low, full of promises neither of us meant.
His hand on my thigh. The door slamming. My back against it before he even turned the lock in an apartment God knows where.
My dress is on the floor, a crumpled black flag of surrender. My panties are missing, probably somewhere under the couch or between the mattress and last night’s shame.
The room smells like a hangover wrapped in regret.
I sit up slowly, trying not to jostle the man beside me. His mutter turns into a snore, and I take it as permission. His face is turned away, brown hair, messy stubble, a neck tattoo I don’t remember noticing.
I don't care. He was a warm body, and I needed one.
I grab my dress off the floor and shimmy into it without shame. The zipper sticks. I leave it halfway. My heels are nearby, one broken, the other still reeking of spilled alcohol.
When I pass the mirror near the hallway, it stops me. I don’t recognize the girl staring back.
Eyeliner smeared like war paint. Lipstick faded to a ghost of a color that once screamed confidence. I look like someone who wanted to be touched but forgot how to ask for it kindly. I look like the kind of woman mothers warn their daughters not to become.
Honestly, I look like shit.
My purse is on the faux-leather sofa, contents spilled like a confession. My phone is black-screened and dead.
Fitting.
Even if it were on, there’d be no new messages. Not from friends. Not from family. Definitely not from him.
No one checks in on a people who are too fucked up to care.
I open the door as quietly as I can. The hallway outside smells like mold and disinfectant. The type of place where you find cigarette butts in the stairwell. I hold my breath until I’m outside.
And then, I exhale.
It’s not relief, not really. Just the absence of more guilt.
The city is waking up. The sky is a bruised mix of purple and gray, and the streets gleam with yesterday’s rain. I walk barefoot for half a block, shoes dangling from my hand, the heel still wobbling like it’s had one too many drinks too.
A couple walks from the back of an alley, laughing, fingers tangled. Her lipstick is smeared. His shirt is half untucked. They look like they made the same mistakes I did last night, but somehow theirs look romantic. Forgivable.
I pass a bakery just opening. The warm scent of bread drifts out onto the street, and for a second, I think about going in. Pretending to be someone who wakes up early and eats croissants with coffee on their way to work.
I keep walking.
Places like that belong to people who still believe in mornings.
By the time I reach my apartment, the pain behind my eyes is a dull roar. My building looks worse in daylight. Paint chipping. A cracked window on the third floor that management never fixes. I take the stairs because the elevator smells like weed and piss.
