Mason’s lips curled at the corners. His eyes flashed darkly.
His voice was thick, lustful as he said to me, not to her, not to fucking her, “I wasn’t sure whether I still was.”
Electricity sparked between us. I was surprised the neon light on the wall reading “Dublin Ink” didn’t spark. Didn’t shatter. Didn’t cascade down on us drops of glowing pink rain.
In his eyes I could see the darkness I used to stare into from my bed as Mason fucked his Miss Last Nights. I could see the way the chandelier rattled, feel the ceiling dust on my tear-stained cheeks. I could feel my desire, my lust, my panic, my fear, my anger as I remained there, frozen, as I imagined what he was doing, choreographed by their cries.
But I could also see that tonight would be different.
I would not remain down the hall staring into the darkness, fingers trembling over my wet panties. Mason would be there to brush away the dust from my cheeks. The bed would be empty of any desire, any lust, panic, fear, anger.
Because tonight I was going to be Miss Last Night.
“I think you should leave,” I said, not bothering to look over at the girl.
She tugged at Mason’s arm. Whispered, “Come on, let’s go.”
The poor thing didn’t realise I was talking to her. Didn’t know the decision had already been made. That she was already an unwelcome guest. That Mason and I, that my husband and I had already moved on. That she wasn’t even there anymore despite her tugging on his shirt like a pathetic little kid.
“I think you should leave before things get ugly,” I said, eyes still fixed on Mason.
He licked his lips, pupils widening. She should leave before she saw my naked body, saw how my husband salivated over it. Saw how he would never react to her naked body the way he did to mine. I spared her the details that things getting ugly meant rough, violent sex. Meant holes in the wall. Meant sweating bodies moving against one another in a way that only two as close as my husband and I together could know. Primal. Instinctual. Loud. The girl should leave before she witnessed a kind of passion that she would realise with crushing certainty that she would never experience, never know.
“Now, bitch,” I hissed, taking all the hate I felt for Mason and directing it at her.
It wasn’t fair. But fuck, when the hell was life ever fair? If it was fair Mason wouldn’t have left. If it was fair, I wouldn’t ever be in a position where I was unbuttoning my pyjama shirt in front of some random chick who thought she was going to get her brains fucked out by my husband.
When the final button was undone, I turned on the stairs. My hand trembled as I released the handrail. My knuckles were white. My fingers red. I turned and without another word, I climbed the stairs. I slipped the shirt from my shoulders. Let it fall behind me. At the top of the staircase I leaned over and pulled down my underwear. Slowly I stepped from them. One foot. The other. With a toe I pushed them off the top step. I could hear my panties, like the little flutter of a dove’s wing, falling to the stair below.
Naked there in the soft pink glow at the top of the stairs, I hesitated for just long enough to say, “Are you coming?”
As I turned down the hallway with all its hidden shadows and dark corners, I heard the door downstairs close. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. I knew who left.
And I knew who stayed.
I walked toward my bedroom. Not the one down the hall. Mason’s. Our bedroom.
Without asking, I went inside.