IF IT IS TO BE SAID SO IT BE, SO IT IS

Your heartbeat is growing faster and faster as the GPS in your car closes in on Mencken’s house. You can’t tell if the butterflies in your stomach are warning you or applauding the fact you actually agreed to go tonight. This isn’t a date. You know that. And yet, you’re well aware this is new territory. You try to think practically, logically, reminding yourself that this is just like any other night. You’re an adult. He’s an adult. It’s just two adults… Hanging out.

Honestly, you don’t know what his intentions are and that’s what really makes you nervous. You still can’t figure out why he invited you over in the first place, since he was so noncommittal about the offer. Just a mention of being home alone with his address. Maybe some dinner. Maybe a drink. He’d said it was up to you. The ball was in your court.

If he was your age, he’d probably would have told you straight up that he wanted to fuck around tonight. Or said something so overtly sexual that you’d have been able to put two and two together. Mencken was hard to read on a good day, let alone over text where tone could be interpreted hundreds of different ways. You tried not to of course, but you couldn’t help but overthink it all. The drive from your parent’s house in DC to his house in Northern Virginia would have been about half an hour without traffic but given you were already in Virginia today, it was only fifteen minutes.

And god, did you wish it was longer.

You slow instinctively as you turn into the driveway, pulling up beside his Audi and turning off the ignition. You sit there longer than necessary, first reaching into your bag for a piece of gum, then pulling out your lip gloss. Flipping the drivers seat mirror down, you lean slightly closer and swipe the gloss across your lips. It’s subtle, a sheer natural tone that just added the littlest bit of shine. You take a deep breath and exhale as you look at yourself one last time, running your fingers through your hair quickly to add a little volume before you swing open the door and step out.

“Hey,” he calls out casually from the front porch, making you jump at his sudden appearance.

“Fuck!” you exclaim quickly, hand flying to your chest out of reflex. “How long have you been standing there?”

He’s leaning against one of the cement pillars, arms crossed over his chest as he shrugs gently. Calm. Observant. Entirely too amused. “A few seconds after I heard you pull up,” he says. “I watched the whole lip gloss, hair flick ordeal.”

You stare at him for half a second feeling slightly embarrassed, “That wasn’t a hair flick.”

“Mhm,” he replies unconvinced.

You shake your head, trying to recover some dignity as you step fully onto the porch. He looks different when he’s not in his usual button up shirt and neatly gelled hair, younger somehow. As if wearing a t-shirt and letting his hair sit naturally took a few years off. It’s kind of disorienting when you see someone out of their natural environment. It throws you off.

“Hi,” you say as you now stand in front of him, exhaling and forcing your shoulders to relax as if the drive here was painstakingly long and you had finally reached your destination. It wasn’t. It was only a short drive from the school your mother taught at.

“Hi,” he responds back, stretching his arm out to let you walk inside first. “Welcome.”

You step past him, sneakers quiet against the entryway floor, and the house wraps around you immediately. Clean. Modern. Warm in a controlled way. It smells faintly like wood and something citrusy, a distant candle burning somewhere understated and intentional. His taste, you think. Or the taste he’s cultivated alongside his life with Sara. Who knows.

There’s an awkwardness between you both, faint but undeniable. Not uncomfortable but uncharted. You’ve kissed twice before, stolen moments with context and exits and other people nearby. This is different though. There’s no script. No established rhythm. No escape route. No shared understanding of what this greeting is supposed to look like when you’re standing in the house he owns with his wife.

You turn slightly, your bag still on your shoulder and suddenly growing aware of how close he is right now. He hasn’t touched you, he’s being careful not to. But his presence fills the space anyway, his attention trained on you in a way that makes you feel seen rather than assessed under a microscope.

“Shoes off?” You ask politely, not knowing if this was one of those households or not. You’d seen how crazy clean his car was, so you’d expected his house to be the same. For the most part it was. Clean, but not sterile. Lived in.

He shrugs nonchalantly, walking down the hall towards the open plan kitchen. “Yeah, get comfy. You want a drink? I opened a red just before but I’ve got white if that’s more your style. Or spirits?”

“Red’s good, thanks.” You glance around again, taking it in as you slowly follow his lead. The living room opens up ahead of you, all glass and clean lines looking out to the forest surrounding you. For upper class suburbia it sure felt like being isolated in the middle of the woods. Quiet. Dark.

His house is nice. Tasteful without being cold. Clean lines softened by the evidence of routine and the evidence of having a young child. A framed drawing on a console table you almost miss at first. A pair of small sneakers tucked near the door. Family photos that don’t feel staged so much as selectively chosen.

You feel it then, the presence of people who aren’t here. It’s good his wife and son aren’t here whilst you are. Objectively. Practically. You don’t have to navigate awkward explanations or ghosts at the dinner table. And yet, their absence is loud. This is their home too.

The thought sits strangely in your chest. You’re not supposed to be here. Not alone at least.

He returns with two glasses, wine already poured and he hands one to you without ceremony. His fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Not accidental, but not emphasised either.

“Thanks,” you say taking it, grateful for the normalcy of the action and the alcohol that would eventually take the edge off your nerves.

“I’m surprised you came,” he says leaning back against the kitchen bench.

You look up at him over the rim of your glass, eyes steady and your mouth curved just enough to suggest you’re not thrown off. “Really? Why?”

He considers your response for a moment, longer than the question technically requires. It’s not appraisal, it’s more calibration. “I thought you would’ve had plans on a Saturday night,” he says finally.

You lower the glass slowly, cradling it in your hands like an anchor. “And yet, you still invited me over.”

That earns a slight smile from him. He lets out a quiet breath, faintly laced with laughter before shifting his weight and loosening his posture. “Like I said,” he starts, “I’ve got the place to myself for once. Why waste the opportunity?”

His gaze lingers on you again. Longer this time. There’s something openly contemplative there now, like he’s stopped pretending this is casual in the ways that matter.

You drift over to a nearby wall where floating shelves are neatly arranged with photo frames. It’s the kind of careful curation that speaks to someone who likes control, or at least strives for the illusion of it. Amongst them is the candle you smelt from before, a decorative vase, a strange exotic sculpture, and a few little souvenirs evident of travel. Nothing loud. Nothing accidental.

Mencken doesn’t move. Nor does he speak. He just watches you. The kind of quiet attention that makes you aware of yourself in a way you don’t particularly like, but also can’t deny is electric. Your eyes scan across the different photos and stop at his son James. Small and wide eyed, captured mid laugh perched on his father’s shoulders. A little mop of hair that clearly defies any attempts at combing. You feel a faint tug in your chest seeing Mencken smiling with his son. Soft, sympathetic, slightly surprised even. It differs so much to the version of him you see around your parents’ social circles. It humanises him.

Then you see the photos of him with his wife. Side by side, both forcing the same polite smile people do when the camera demands a version of love they no longer feel. The edges of the smiles are stiff, close in proximity but distant in emotion. The contrast is sharp; the effortless joy of being with his son child compared to the hollow presentation of a happy couple. You pause, not judgment exactly but recognition. Reality. The things that exist beyond the frame of the invitation he extended to you tonight.

He doesn’t comment. Not a word. Just lets you linger there, letting you piece together what you already know — that you’re intruding in a sense, but with consent. That his life has compartments. That tonight, one of those little compartments is reserved for you, if even if only temporarily.

You furrow your brows at another photo, tilting your head as you reach out to lightly touch the edge of the frame. “How old are you in this?” you ask, pointing at a photo of him in a gown and cap, looking slightly older than the average college graduate.

He walks over and stands beside you, letting the space between you remain comfortable and not encroaching. You pick up the frame to get a better look, examining the details. The tilt of the cap, the stiffness of his smile, the subtle relief in his posture.

“Twenty four,” he says, matter-of-factly. No fanfare, no nostalgia, just the bare fact. “I travelled around Europe after high school for a bit, then came back for college.”

“Fuck me, you aged well…” you mutter quietly, more to yourself than him before blinking up at him. Your brow arches, scanning his face like a casual appraisal. Damn. He really has aged well.

He notices of course and he smirks ever so slightly, because someone noticing that particular compliment never failed to flatter him no matter how often he heard it. “Well, thank you.”

He nudges his head toward the living room, the invitation subtle but firm. You follow, moving through the open space and he settles onto the lounge first. You mirror him, sitting beside him. The distance comfortable but not impersonal.

“So, you and the piano…” he begins, voice casual, but the smirk in his eyes gives it away. He’s interested. Curious. Maybe a little predatory in the teasing way men like him can be when they’re genuinely intrigued.

“Me and the piano,” you repeat softly, shifting slightly to tuck your legs up onto the sofa.

“What’s the deal there?” he asks, leaning forward just enough, playful warmth in his tone. “Are you this secret virtuoso nobody knows about?”

He chuckles lightly, flirting, teasing, the kind of tone that makes it impossible not to engage without betraying your own interest. You can see it in the tilt of his head, the faint lift at the corner of his mouth and the way he’s trying to prod something out of you without asking directly.

You smile wider, letting the tension hang for a beat before answering. “I wouldn’t say secret,” you say, letting your voice keep a teasing rhythm of its own.

He laughs softly, genuine this time, not mocking. “Okay so just a musical prodigy then, whipping out recitals in a 7 day window.”

Your smile quirks, amused and a little impressed by his read. He’s relaxed, flirty, teasing but not overbearing. And somehow, even in his living room, the way he leans forward just slightly with his elbows resting lightly on his knees, makes the air between you feel charged.

“It’s just a high school recital, it’s nothing crazy,” you shrug. “Mum’s got one of the juniors filling in for most of the pieces but there’s a few that are a little trickier.”

You take another slow sip of wine, letting the warmth settle as the room hums quietly around you. The pause stretches a beat longer. Comfortable now, as if the silence itself is part of the conversation.

He furrows his brows as his eyes narrow a little, trying to wrap his head around how you, an almost twenty two year old, was filling in for an eighteen year old high school student so last minute. “Right, so a junior can’t learn something in a week but you can?”

You smile and shake your head, “No, no I already know them. She had her string students practice with their main pianist like, all year and the other students who play piano don’t know these particular pieces. So that’s why Mum is pulling me in.”

“Would I know any of the pieces?” He asks curiously, genuinely interested.

“If you know your classics, then yeah? Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto number one with the full orchestra which is just… Incredible with the wind section… Oh, and the super cliche Pirates of the Caribbean theme song with her freshmen and sophomores… And one of her senior violinists is doing Vivaldi’s Summer which is just, fucking insane for anyone to do but because Mum invited Juilliard’s scouting people to come watch him, he obviously needed a pianist otherwise it would suck. So that’s the main reason she pulled me in.”

He nods slowly before turning towards you with a grin, “So you are a piano prodigy then.”

“Oh nooo, no, no. That’s Mum, but she can’t perform obviously,” you say casually, yet carrying a certain weight. “She went to Juilliard, toured professionally with the New York Philharmonic and after she met my Dad at a jazz club in Brooklyn, she moved to Philly to be with him… Then she had me, we moved to DC when I was like, nine? And she ended up teaching at Potomac. Now she heads up the whole music department there from K to 12 so it’s pretty big.”

He listens attentively. There’s something about how he does it, interested but not intrusive as he lets you ramble in a way that makes you feel like he’s genuinely parsing the pieces of your life. Every detail seems to add context to why you are the way you are, why certain instincts and curiosities come naturally to you, how you hold yourself.

“My son goes there,” he throws out, taking a sip of his wine. “Elementary of course but yeah, I had no idea your Mum was on the faculty.”

“Yeah, almost twelve years now. She taught me how to play piano when I was six, took me to competitions, recitals, eisteddfods. Fun times,” you chuckle sarcastically before taking a few gulps of wine.

“I bet her perfectionism came out when she taught you, huh? She’s… Pretty tightly wound.”

You let out a defeated laugh, “Oh fuck yeah, she was brutal. She’d hold a wooden ruler above my hands and flick it against my fingers whenever I fucked up. Stung like a bitch.”

Mencken lets out a short, strained chuckle in his throat, “Nothing like corporal punishment to get your kid to learn something quick… It definitely works.”

You furrow your brows, “You don’t hit Jamie, right?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, “God no, fuck, never. My dad beat me and my brothers a bunch growing up but he was a Navy man, so it was just how they communicated. Was a different time back then, nothing like now.”

“It was never the right thing to do to a kid no matter what era,” you say softly. “So did you always grow up in Virginia or was your Dad stationed somewhere else?”

He nods, “Yeah, always in VA. We were that stereotypical military family. My Dad was in the Navy for thirty six years and both my brothers served in the Army. One’s in Afghanistan right now and the other got an honourable discharge after serving in Iraq… I’m the asshole who chose a cushy desk job and got into politics.”

His fingers rest loosely around the stem of his glass, but his attention stays fixed on you, steady and unhurried. There’s no rush in him tonight. No urgency to force momentum. He’s letting it build naturally, like he trusts the universe to do its job.

“How come you didn’t follow in their footsteps?” You ask inquisitively.

He shrugs and thinks about his answer for a second, “It just didn’t really interest me… Guess I didn’t want to die? Figured I could serve my country elsewhere?”

“Fair enough,” you chuckle. “I’ve seen you with a gun, I wouldn’t trust the fate of our country in your hands.”

“Fuck alright, go easy on me…” he laughs, surprised at your sly dig but respecting the roast regardless. “Do you trust me with it in terms of congress?”

You shrug coyly and hold back a smile, “Not really.”

“Ouch…” he jokes. “I invite you into my home, give you wine, offer you my weed and this is what I get as thanks? You’re a horrible house guest.”

You grin back at him playfully, “You haven’t offered me weed, liar.”

Mencken raises an eyebrow, “I was going to but now I’m not so sure. You’re just going to attack me again.”

It’s only a few seconds before he gets up and leads the way to the deck outside. The glass doors slide closed behind you both where the backyard is dimly lit from the lights inside the house. Somewhere further out, the quiet silhouette of trees blends into the darkness and the smell of freshly cut grass hits you. The night air is cool enough to make the wine in your system feel pleasantly warm.

He opens a little tin on the table with a soft click and slips out a piece of rolling paper with the kind of practiced competence that suggests this is not a novelty activity. Fingers quick, methodical. It’s almost annoyingly graceful. You weren’t the worst at rolling but you definitely couldn’t do it as quickly as him. It’s strangely attractive.

“You look surprised,” he says without looking up, holding a makeshift filter in the corner of his mouth as he used both of his hands.

You hum softly, “I mean, we smoked up the first time we met but I didn’t expect you to have any on you.”

He licks the edge of the paper with absent precision before twisting the end. “I used to smoke a lot before I got married, Sara hated the smell so I quit. But the laws got a little more lax this year so I keep a stash for times like this. When she’s not home or when the boys have a long day of golf,” he laughs.

Passing it to you, he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and holds it out. You take it, thank him and light the end. The first inhale is slow, measured before you lean back into the lounge cushion. Smoke curls upward into the night air as you exhale and hand it back to him. You turn your head slightly towards him, eyes sharper than they probably should be after half a bottle of Shiraz.

“What’s the deal with you and Sara anyway? Are you guys in like, an open relationship or something?” You ask, figuring now was as better time to mention the elephant in the room as any.

He lets out a short laugh to himself as he places the joint between his lips and shakes his head, “It’s not as straight forward as that, believe me.”

“Does she know I’m here?” You ask cautiously.

He shakes his head again as he inhales, leaning back and resting his arm along the back of the lounge behind you. Not quite touching you but closing the gap slightly. “She said she’s at her sister’s place but I’m ninety nine percent sure she’s not. She’s been sleeping with her tennis coach for… Fuck, a while now.”

You furrow your brows, “Does she know that you know?”

He chuckles to himself in amusement, “She told me herself.” He glances at you for your reaction, but he can’t really read your face because you don’t know how to react yourself. “She’ll come home with that typical post-sex confidence people get and if I ask, she’ll usually just tell me straight up she was fucking someone else. Juan.”

“Juan? Sounds like a pool boy in a 70’s porno,” You say furrowing your brows. “And what, you’re okay with it?”

He shakes his head and passes the joint to you. “It’s not my ideal definition of a marriage, no. But I can’t stop her. We floated the idea of divorce once but for we vetoed that pretty quick for the sake of Jamie. We’re kind of just used to the dysfunction. We both know the relationship is fucked but I think we’re just trying to get to a point of healthy coparenting under the same roof, rather than mending the relationship as a whole. It’s fucked, I know.”

There’s no performance in it. No attempt to cast himself as victim or villain. Just a man stating the architecture of his life like he’s describing the weather. He watches you for a moment before speaking, eyes half lidded from the weed but attentive nevertheless.

“Wait,” he says, squinting slightly as if he’s pulling the memory out of thin air. “Last time I saw you you were going through a break up… How’s that going?”

You sigh, leaning deeper into the outdoor couch. Your voice carries that casual honesty people only manage when they’re a little high. Filterless in a way. “I guess I’m over it now. Sometimes I’ll get kinda bummed out over certain things but once I move to Florida in a few months everything will be fine.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, “Bummed out over what?”

You shrug, “I dunno, sometimes I miss him but if I really think about it, it’s just because DC is boring and I used to spend most of my weekends with him, going out and drinking and fucking and stuff.”

When you finish, he laughs. Not at you per se, but the blunt logic of what you were saying. “If you were still busy and getting laid as much as you were before,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the joint burning low between his fingers, “Would you still miss him?”

You shake your head, already half smiling at the shameful answer. “Probably not… That’s why I think it’s just boredom that makes me think about him.”

Mencken lets out a quiet hum of agreement, leaning back into the couch. For a moment he just looks out across the backyard, the pool lights rippling against the underside of the trees.

“Yeah, that tracks,” he says after a second. “People confuse routine with love all the time,” he then adds. “You build a little ecosystem. Same bars, same bed, same person laying next to you in the morning. You remove that person and suddenly the routine collapses.”

A crooked smile appears and he nudges your knee with his, “Sounds like you’re just under stimulated,” he says plainly. He glances sideways at you, the faintest hint of mischief in his tone. “Which is a pretty easy fix. I’m sure you could go to any bar in DC and pick up a guy without trying.”

“I’m just not a one night stand kind of girl,” you shrug, grimacing slightly at the thought. “I’ve done it before but it’s just… Ugh.”

He watches you try to rationalise it, the corner of his mouth slowly creeping upward like he’s enjoying your blatant honesty. “Ugh?” he repeats, amused.

“Yeah, it’s ugh.” You smile, laughing a little as you try to put the feeling into words. “It just makes the sex like, just sex. And that’s kinda boring, you know? There’s no chase, no buildup, no real effort.”

When you finish, he nods slowly, “I get that,” he says after a moment. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and looks at you. The stoned calm has softened him a little. His usual quick wit is still there, but it’s wrapped in something looser tonight. “So this guy you were seeing, I presume the sex wasn’t boring then?”

You shake your head, “No, no he was good. Probably the best I’ve had. Not that I’ve been with a shit tonne of people to begin with but like, yeah he was good.”

He leans back into the couch again, stretching his legs out on the chaise. He makes that quiet humming sound, almost thoughtful, almost amused, and it hangs in the air long enough for you to notice.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Nothing,” he says coyly. He stretches one arm along the back of the couch behind you, relaxed but aware of the proximity. “I’m just thinking,” he adds after a beat, like he’s narrating his own internal briefing.

“About what?”

There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that says he’s entertaining a thought he’s not entirely comfortable sharing yet. His shoulder brushes yours as he shifts slightly closer.

“Well you said he was the best you’ve ever had,” he continues, light but inquisitive. “Just curious what put him in the number one spot.”

You start to answer his question but somewhere along the way the story takes a detour. Instead of explaining why this ex of yours was so good, you end up explaining why everyone else wasn’t. Mencken listens with growing amusement as you go through them like a slightly ruthless performance review and he smiles slowly.

“So what I’m hearing is that this guy wasn’t actually that great,” he says, smugly grinning. “He just wasn’t as bad as the others.”

“I mean… I don’t have any complaints. It was fun, I enjoyed it, he enjoyed it. What else is there to it?”

His mouth twitches slightly. “Sorry to break it to you,” he continues, pushing the end of the joint into the ashtray, “But I don’t think you really know what good sex is.”

You turn your head slowly to look at him, eyes narrowing in slight offence. He meets your look with a calm, slightly smug expression. Not arrogant exactly, but confident in a way that suggests he’s already argued this case in his head and decided he’s right. You’re young. You’re inexperienced. You’ve explained your history and now his conclusion was basically fact. You don’t know what good sex is because you’ve never had it. If you had, you’d know.

His arm is still stretched along the back of the couch behind you, close enough that if you leaned back you’d be resting against him. Instead of backing down, he just settles deeper into the couch, completely unbothered. One ankle crosses over his knee like he’s about to deliver a very casual lecture nobody asked for.

“I’m serious,” he says, settling deeper into the couch. His tone is casual, almost academic, like he’s explaining a basic economic principle rather than talking about sex. “At your age, most people don’t know what the fuck they’re doing yet.”

He gestures vaguely with one hand, like the whole thing is fairly obvious. “Men in their early twenties…” he trails, shaking his head with a knowing smile, “They’re enthusiastic, sure. But they’re not skilled enough to meet women where they are. They’re impatient. Half the time they’re just focused on finishing the race as fast as possible. Which is why most women your age think sex is just… Fine.”

The way he says fine carries a quiet skepticism.

He leans his head back against the couch, looking up at the festoon lights strung across the deck for a moment before turning back to you again.

“Then they get a little older or they meet someone who’s actually had enough experience to understand how shit works… And suddenly their whole world looks different when it comes to sex.”

His mouth curves slightly as he looks at you again, amused but not pushing the point too hard. “You’ll see one day,” he says lightly. But the look he gives you suggests he doesn’t actually think it’s a theory at all.

Your eyes narrow at him, slow and suspicious, the weed softening the edges of your expression but not the point you’re making.

“That’s not fair though,” you say, voice a little lazier now. Almost bordering on whiny. “Just because women take longer to finish it means we can’t have good sex until men learn how to not cum in their pants too early? That’s bullshit.”

For a second he just looks at you, then he laughs. Not dismissively, more like you’ve made a fair counterpoint and he appreciates the fight in it.

“I mean, experience goes both ways,” he says, holding his hands up slightly like he’s conceding a portion of the argument. “I’ve had my fair share of women who just like…” he trails before leaning back and demonstrating his point by letting his arms fall limply out to the sides with his head tilted back in an exaggerated impression.

“Lay there like a starfish?” You chuckle.

“I was going to say dead body but starfish sounds less necrophilic so let’s go with that,” he laughs, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s turned toward you more. “But it’s what you said before about one night stands. If there’s no build up or effort, then what’s the point? Once you learn patience and communication, that’s when you start figuring out what good sex really is.”

The way he says it is so casual it almost feels instructional, like he’s explaining a life skill most people learn the hard way. “Women need that build up. Emotionally sure, that helps,” he adds with a small shrug, “But I’m mostly talking about-”

“Foreplay,” you answer.

“Exactly.” His eyes flick to yours for a second, gauging your reaction. “And when men are young and inexperienced, they can’t last that long. So they rush straight to the main event.”

He glances at you with a faint smile, clearly amused by how philosophical the conversation has gotten. Suddenly, he looks down at the ashtray and the empty wine glasses before looking back up at you. “I just realised you can’t drive like this, do you want to stay here tonight?”

You blink at him, the gears in your own head turning a little slower thanks to the weed. It takes you a second to catch up with the logistics of the situation. The wine. The joint. The fact that your car is parked out the front and you are very obviously not in a condition to be driving back to DC.

“Oh shit,” you say, half laughing. “I didn’t even think about that.” Then the other piece of the puzzle lands in your head. “Would your wife-“

“She’ll be home by eleven,” he says, cutting in gently but decisively. There’s no tension in the way he says it, just a quick assurance before the worry can set in properly. “You can have the guest room,” he adds, waving a hand casually toward the house behind you. “It’s all good.”

You nod softly, “Thanks, yeah it’s probably easier to stay here than wait to sober up and drive back home super late.”

He smiles at that, relaxed, like the decision solves a small logistical puzzle. “Perfect,” he says, pushing himself up from the couch. “I’ll go grab more wine then.”

He disappears through the sliding doors, the warm light from behind the sheer curtains briefly spilling out onto the patio before the door slides shut behind him again. You lean back against the outdoor couch, letting your head tip slightly toward the sky. The string lights glow softly overhead, swaying just enough in the breeze to make the shadows move.

His yard is surprisingly peaceful. No traffic noise. No city hum. Just the distant rustle of trees and the faint trickle of water from somewhere near the pool filter. Your heart, on the other hand, is doing absolutely none of that. It’s absolutely racing. You stare out at the dark hedge line, exhaling slowly, trying to pretend you’re not very aware of the situation you’re currently in.

You just spent the last half hour talking about sex with him like it was casual dinner conversation. And not even in the teasing way people usually do when they’re flirting. It had been weirdly analytical. Honest. Except every once in a while his knee would brush yours. Or his hand would linger a second too long as you passed the joint between you. You press your lips together, letting out a quiet breath through your nose, equal parts stoned and flustered.

The sliding door opens again before you can spiral too far into the thought. Mencken steps back out with the wine bottle in one hand and he sits back down next to you to refill both of your glasses.

“You know,” he says after a moment, glancing over at you, “I just remembered something.”

“Yeah?”

He swirls the wine lazily in his glass, watching it for a second before continuing. “You mentioned that we smoked together the first night we met, but I also promised that I’d show you around wine country sometime.”

You smile softly at that, the memory clicking into place. “Oh yeah, you did say that. Well I couldn’t legally drink back then but now I can.”

He watches you when you say that. Trying to absorb every single micro expression to figure out where your limits were and how much of a boundary he could push. Your smile tries to stay contained, but it slips through the cracks anyway.

“My birthday’s next month,” you add. “Might be good timing.”

He notices your little smile immediately. Of course he does. Mencken has the kind of attention that locks onto small reactions and holds them up to the light under a microscope. He nods slowly, like he’s already turning the idea over in his head.

“Well,” he says, taking another sip of his wine, “I’m a man of my word.” He leans back into the couch again, one ankle resting casually over the other. “So if you wanna go, I’ll take you.”

The offer lands easily like a plan he fully intends to follow through on. You nod gently, the warmth of the wine and the weed settling comfortably into your body now. “I’d love that.”

For a moment neither of you moves.

He stays where he is, close enough that the warmth of him is easy to feel through the crisp night air. The string lights above cast a soft amber glow across his face, catching the thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Consider it a birthday present,” he says.

His voice is lower now, not dramatically, but it was noticeably softer from the closeness of you both. He glances down to your lips briefly before they flick back up to your eyes.

He doesn’t move any closer.

That’s the noticeable part. The restraint. Mencken has the stillness of someone who’s very aware of the moment but refuses to rush it. His arm remains along the back of the couch behind you, his knee still pressed lightly against yours, but he leaves the final inch of space untouched. Like he’s waiting. Not out of hesitation but out of patience. The same patience he’d been casually lecturing you about earlier.

His gaze stays on you steady and calm, but there’s a flicker of anticipation there now. Not hidden, just… Contained. “You’ll need to tell me which weekend you’re free though so I can book somewhere,” he murmurs, voice low and faintly amused. “At least staying overnight…”

“Or two.”

You take his bait hook line and sinker and even through the intoxicating blur of the wine and the weed, you’re aware of how close he already is. How little distance there actually is between you both to close the gap as your lips press against his hungrily. His hand comes up to rest against your jaw, thumb brushing absently against your cheek as he kisses you back and his arm slips around your waist.

It’s only a split second before the moment shifts. Not dramatically, but enough to make you pause. You pull back slightly and your brows furrow together as his hand still lingers against your jaw.

“What?” he asks, watching your expression change.

You gently take his hand and pull it down, turning it slightly in the low light. The metal of his wedding band catches the soft glow from the string lights.

“I can feel your ring,” you say examining it, “And I keep remembering that you’re married.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, not defensive in any way but aware of the weight of it. “If it helps,” he says still watching you, “We’ve basically been emotionally separated for years… I know that probably doesn’t help because it’s still symbolic of… you know...”

You slide the ring off his finger which he watches you do. “Just uh,” he then adds, lifting his hand slightly, “Don’t let me leave that out here. I’ll be in the doghouse if I lose it.”

You slip the ring onto one of your own fingers and hold your hand up, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness. “I won’t let you lose it, don’t worry. Now it’s just like any boring old ring,” you chuckle.

You glance down briefly as you shift closer to him, catching the soft glint of it on your middle finger like it was insulting the very idea of his marriage with a metaphorical ‘fuck you’. His wedding band worn by another woman as she swung her leg over his lap and straddled him.

There’s something about that that seems to amuse him. Impressed by the audacity.

It earns a quiet laugh from him as he shakes his head, leaning back in to kiss you again. The restraint from earlier loosens as his hand slides back to your waist, pulling you even closer against him with a little more force this time. Not rough, but unmistakably more intent. It’s strange how easily the moment stitches itself back together. The absurdity of it flickers through your mind for half a second. You had just been talking about his wife. About his wedding ring. About the fact that this entire situation sits firmly in the category of things people definitely shouldn’t be doing.

Your hips grind against him without much thought, a slow, absent rhythm that builds the momentum of the kiss. His hands tighten on your hips as he steadies you for a second before he just exhales quietly against your lips. There’s actually flicker of surprise in him, like he needs to take a moment for himself to process. Not at what’s happening, but at how strongly it lands. It’s strange. He can’t remember the last time he felt something so strongly deep and carnal.

His wife’s face crosses his mind for the briefest moment as he looks at you. Not guilt per se, more like stark contrast. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had looked at him like this. Or moved toward him like this. Or laughed with him about stupid things in a backyard while passing a joint back and forth before climbing into his lap like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

The thought fades quickly as your hand brushes against his jeans and your hands rest on his thighs. His hands remain on your hips, firm but not pulling you closer than you’ve already chosen to be. His restraint is still there, even now despite wanting to tear your clothes off. But there’s no hiding the heat behind it.

“Patience,” he murmurs quietly, though there’s no real warning in his voice, especially once he chuckles to himself. “Did you not listen to anything I said before?”

You lean back just enough to look at him, the hint of a smirk tugging at your mouth. “I did,” you say, now shifting your tone to be a little more pointed, “It’s why I’m not letting you fuck me until we get to wine country.”

His thumb traces a small, absentminded pattern against your side as he studies your expression, clearly entertained by the fact you were vocalising exactly what he wanted to hear. What he’d fantasised about this morning in the shower. What he’d fantasised about for years and mentally scolded himself over.

“Oh yeah? So what’s this then?”

There’s something approving in the way he says it, like you’ve just passed some unspoken test. Like you were showing that you could bite just as much as you could bark.

“Foreplay,” you say smugly, now unbuttoning the top of his jeans and unzipping them. As you lean closer to him you smirk properly, your lips barely an inch away from his. “See? I do listen.”

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We know what he’s like down the road when she’s an adult cos he’s pretty fkn dominant when they’ve been doing this for years but THE FIRST TIME TESTING THE WATERS ???? How does this even happen like how does he initiate it (or does she?) and who does what and how does she react like I don’t think they go straight to having sex straight away because he’s reluctant to go from 0 to 100 with someone her age without kind of seeing what level he can go to with her like I’m picturing second base your hand stuff but WHAT IS THE VIBE

Ughhh I feel like I’ve written and then rewritten parts over and over again because I have all these different ideas of how the next chapter is going to play out but none of them feel right in my bones ya feel? Like I can imagine ten different ways the next chapter could go but can’t decide on just one that works the best 😫

Mencken wakes up tangled in the bed sheets with his wife’s beside him, her back turned towards him. He reaches for his phone out of muscle memory and the screen glows with dozens of notifications. Emails from work mostly but there were a few text messages from colleagues, one from a golf buddy and two from you. He glances over at Sara still curled up next to him before opening the text thread he has with you, but a notification pops up on his screen before he has the chance: Therapy Session @ 3:30pm.

He flicks the calendar alert away with his thumb before clicking on his messages with you, almost smiling but not quite. He exhales quietly through his nose in amusement at the drunken typo you’d corrected before sending another in the very next message. He types quickly, sending the text before locking his phone and placing it face down on the bedside table.

How’s the hangover?

Across the bed, his wife rolls onto her back with her eyes open now, staring at the ceiling like she’s already counting the figurative cracks in their marriage. He mutters a quick good morning and leans over to kiss the top of her head before swinging his legs out of bed. She runs through her itinerary for the day, starting with dropping Jamie off at a friend’s house for a sleepover, running a few errands, tennis at midday then coming back home around quarter to three for them to then leave for their first couples therapy session.

Mencken nods, because nodding is easier than saying something that could trigger her into an argument again. He didn’t want to go to couples therapy in the first place, but she had insisted they go together. He imagined walking into a beige office and sitting on a worn couch where a stranger had the audacity to charge several hundred dollars just to state the obvious about their relationship. She could tell he was reluctant from the second she brought it up, even more so when she told him it was already booked in. He knew better than to push back and start another argument, so he just nodded and said fine, he’ll go. Though she files his resigned agreement away, ready to use it later as evidence of his emotional unavailability.

Once she leaves, he feels like he can breathe properly again, the relief of not having to constantly walk around on eggshells washing over him. He stated his morning by walking the dog to get a coffee from a nearby cafe, bumping into one of his wife’s friends who was dressed head to toe in expensive activewear after a yoga class. He asked how she was, she said bad, he asked why which he instantly regretted once she launched into an endless story about the state of blueberries at their local grocer and somehow linking that to how she hated giving her husband blowjobs.

“Well Cheryl, it was great catching up with you,” he said politely as he tried to end the conversation, collecting his coffee from the barista and slowly inching away from her. “Take care of yourself, give our love to the kids.”

After that he walked back home, mowed the lawns and swam several laps to cool off before resting on the back porch with his current book; Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. A productive yet strangely cathartic Saturday morning. The phone vibrates on the table beside him once you finally wake up after such a late night out.

I don’t get hangovers haha

He snorts quietly. Youth is a temporary immunity people mistake for virtue. He types back, thumbs steady, tone easy, somewhat playful yet wise from the years he had on you.

Savour it whilst it lasts. They’re not fun.

After he’d given you his number a few weeks ago, you’d texted him that same night so he had yours to save to his contacts. Though neither of you texted again for several days. You didn’t want to text first in case it came off as clingy but you also figured that he should be the one to text first since he asked for your number. He had in fact sent you a message a few days later, quoting something a congressmen from Florida had said during lunch one day. It was a dumb and wildly inaccurate claim about global warming which led him to casually suggest a new law. At first Mencken had thought it was a joke between men, but quickly realised he wasn’t joking.

Congrats in advance for becoming one of Floridas smartest residents…

You’d sent back a link, to which he chuckled at the title alone: ‘10 laws in VA that sound fake, but are totally real’. Even he was surprised by a few of the laws, not knowing they had existed whatsoever. Especially how you weren’t allowed to flip a coin in Richmond to determine who paid for coffee at a cafe, or weren’t allowed to tickle a woman.

Most of those laws aren’t enforceable anymore, they’re just super old and still in the books. Don’t worry, you’re still allowed to sell lettuce on Sundays.

Thank god, how else will I pay all my $250 fines for having sex before marriage? I’d be broke lol

After that, the texts came sporadically. A few sentences back and forth here. A screenshot there. Nothing overly personal or particularly flirty. Excluding the sex before marriage message he couldn’t quite decipher. Were you flirting in that? Was it just a joke or were you making light of the opportunity to mention sex? Today was no exception with the casual texting. Just a relaxed chat between… Friends? You weren’t sure what to call him since you hadn’t really referred to him out loud before. Maisie had asked who you were texting last night and you’d just said nobody, which luckily she didn’t pry into.

When his wife returns from tennis, she steps out into the backyard and glances at the scene in front of her. Her husband with wet hair, a beer bottle in hand and a book in the other. Nowhere near close to ready for their therapy session.

“We have to leave in twenty minutes remember,” she says bluntly, before going back inside the house with a frustrated huff.

It lands like a reprimand, not a gentle reminder. Twenty minutes. Shower. Get ready. The huff at the end is small but precise, sharpened by years of disappointment.

He nods before checking his phone after he hears the glass door slide shut. Your name lights up on the screen again, this time with an image alongside the text.

Kill me now… Thank god I’m not hungover otherwise this would be even more excruciating

It’s hard to decipher what exactly he’s looking at, but from first glance it’s clear you’re in a room full of teenagers. On a second glance you’re in an auditorium, like some sort of band practice since a few of the kids were holding instruments behind metal stands and sheet music.

He frowns at the thought. At twenty one, his Saturdays were spent with mates and fuelled by bad decisions. Not this… Whatever this was.

Where are you?

Your reply comes almost immediately. You’ve been bored for hours, trapped in folding chair purgatory.

Virginia actually… Helping mum for her recital next week, one of her students broke his hand so I’m filling in last minute

He leans back in his chair, beer balanced on his thigh, the lawn immaculate in his periphery and his book now closed and discarded to the side. He imagines your patience being tested by not only your mother, but a room full of students spending their weekend at school against their will. And possibly at the nostalgia and humiliation of returning to a place that once defined you in your youth.

This is not the version of you he’s been casually assembling in his head. A young woman who drinks cheap wine on Friday nights and texts sharp observations about the world to a man seventeen years her senior. He pictures you onstage, not performing for applause but out of necessity, holding an instrument with the ease of someone who learned young and never fully quit.

Aw, what a good daughter. What do you play?

Take a wild guess

As he walks inside to the bathroom to shower, he imagines you with different instruments. Steam begins to bloom as he turns on the shower, fogging the mirror as he undressed. He places his phone on the vanity, not responding to you yet. He wanted to figure this out. He wanted to get it right.

Guitar perhaps? Acoustic, not electric. Casual competence. The kind of thing you’d downplay but spend afternoons strumming chords over and over. Same with piano. He could picture you tinkering with the keys quietly and humming the melody to yourself. You were intelligent, so he could picture you being a bit of a songwriter growing up. That suited the idea of a suburban girl in her bedroom with her guitar, but it leant too much into cliche archetypes. You’d been dismantling those since the day he’d met you. You weren’t the Taylor Swift type.

Violin flickers to mind first. Something about it feels fitting. The intimacy of delicate beauty. The way it tucks under the chin demands proximity and evokes emotion in a way not many instruments had the ability to do. It demands attention, which seems fitting for a girl like you but that in itself felt too performative.

He steps under the shower, the water hitting his shoulders and running down his back. Woodwind instruments drift through his mind next. Flute? No, clarinet. He snorts at the idea of you earnestly trilling away in a high school auditorium, surrounded by pubescent chaos. Though he does like the thought of you wrapping your lips around a reed, with your cheeks hollowed out perfectly and your tongue arched highly in your mouth. Jesus.

Clarinet felt too small for you. It blended too much into the background, and for such a high achiever he doubted you’d have excelled in something so forgettable. In an orchestra, sure, the wind instruments played an important part but he pegged you for more of a soloist versus ensemble player.

He was taking this far too seriously and he doesn’t know why exactly, but visualising you with different instruments was somehow doing something for him. Cello crosses his mind next and lingers longer than it really should, half distracted by his own hand drifting down to gently stroke his cock. Maybe it was the scale of such a huge instrument in front of you. The way a cello commanded the player to wrap themselves around it rather than conquer it. It’s not flashy, but it’s deep. It’s felt more than it’s heard.

He shakes his head slightly, water slicking his hair back. This is fucking ridiculous. He’s a grown man about to sit on a couch and discuss his dwindling marriage with a stranger, but mentally auditioning you for an invisible orchestra and pleasuring himself all the while.

Maybe it’s the bass, he thinks. You’d always been someone to challenge male dominated areas. He pictures your hands, effortless and controlling the figurative heartbeat of the music. Fingers flicking each string with precision, not decoration. Your hand sliding up and down the neck, pressing into each fret. Fast when they need to be, precise when they don’t. Muscle memory doing most of the work while your mind floats somewhere above it, detached and sharp. There’s something about your competence as a musician that gets under his skin, something about you knowing exactly what you were doing.

Music as control. As discipline. As expression that doesn’t ask permission.

He presses his palm flat against the tiled wall as his grips tightens, the water cascading down his back as he attempts to ground himself. This is absurd, he tells himself. He’s projecting. Romanticising. Turning an instrument into a symbol because symbols are safer than reality, and the reality is he doesn’t want to admit he’s jerking off to the thought of you instead of the woman he’s married to.

And yet, the image persists. You absorbed in the music, not performing for anyone, not seeking approval but excelling in something purely because you can. Picturing you absorbed in something so intimate, that it didn’t involve anybody else but you. That’s the part that really gets him, if he was being honest. The fact you were so independently minded. So ambitious. So intelligent. He clenches his jaw as his hand pumps faster, his mind flicking from innocent thoughts of you playing an instrument to things much darker. Rather than your hand sliding along the neck of a guitar, it’s wrapped around his cock. Your lips not wrapped around the feed of a clarinet, but around him. Rather than looking at the sheet music in front of you, you’re looking up at him, wide eyed and down on your knees. Needy. Desperate.

He clenches his jaw and suppresses a moan as he reaches his climax and finishes, muttering a breathy ‘what the fuck’ to himself as he came down from his high and realised the absurdity of what he’d just used as erotic material. He deliberately shifts his stance and turns fully into the stream of water, letting it rinse the thought of you off him. He tries not to think about it, the fact that something so innocent had turned him on like this. It almost sends a shiver up his spine realising this sort of effect you had over him.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist, he looks at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as he always does. Composed. Contained. Presentable to a degree that any naked man could. Nothing about the way he felt about you altered who he was. As long as those thoughts stayed inside his head and those actions remained behind closed doors, nothing about him changed. But maybe change was a good thing. It obviously felt good.

He picks up his phone before leaving the bathroom, his thumb still damp with the towel slung low on his hips as he walks to his bedroom.

Give me a clue

Simple. Casual. As if he hasn’t just spent ten minutes turning orchestral imagination into sexual stimuli. He tosses the phone onto the bed and opens his closet, reaching automatically for something neutral and casual. Therapy appropriate. Nothing that suggests defiance or rigidity. Nothing too professional or corporate.

He buttons his shirt and glances back at the phone. Still nothing. You were probably busy playing whatever it was that you played, so it could be minutes or hours before he got a response. It was probably for the best anyway, he needed to focus on the upcoming therapy session.

The commute to the psychologist’s office was mostly silent. He drove. She scrolled on her phone. The neighbourhood passes by in clean, expensive suburban blurs. No music. No small talk. Just the low hum of the engine and the faint sense that they are both conserving energy for an impending combustion.

About five minutes away from arriving, he decides to make an effort. Or something close to effort. “How was tennis?”

He keeps his eyes on the road when he asks, his tone neutral and impartial. A peace offering small enough not to feel like surrender. Sara just scoffs in response. Not loudly but enough to register contempt. She shakes her head, a quick, dismissive motion like the question itself has deeply insulted her.

He tightens his grip on the wheel by a fraction. He has no idea why she’s already angry. That’s the most infuriating part. They haven’t even arrived at the therapists office yet, what could she possibly be mad about? He walked the dog, he mowed the lawns, he showered when she asked, they left the house on time. He even asked her a question about her day. According to his mental checklist, he’d done nothing wrong today.

The therapists office was exactly how he imagined it, almost to the point of parody. Soft lighting. Generic art on the walls. Furniture designed to suggest openness while quietly enforcing hierarchy. The therapist sat opposite them with a notebook balanced on her knee. It was borderline laughable.

Mencken knew the session was pointless the moment he sat down, but he smiles nevertheless. In his version of reality, the math is clean. The data is there. His wife is the one who cheats. Repeatedly. She’s the one who starts fights. The one who withholds and provokes and escalates. Cause, meet effect. He’s the one who simply reacts. He withdraws. He retaliates. He defends. This was not a mystery that warranted several hundred dollars to discuss with some fucking self righteous stranger.

The therapist asks him questions that slip past facts and land squarely in implication. How do you respond when she seeks connection? What do you think she’s needing in those moments? How do you show up emotionally in the relationship?

Mencken answers carefully. He always does. He is articulate and measured. He uses words like responsibility and pressure and miscommunication, because he’s learned those are the right ones when debating politically. And still, somehow, the questions keep turning back toward him.

He feels irritation creep up his spine, slow and hot. The unfairness of it lodges behind his eyes. Woman siding with woman and showing their bias against men. He didn’t make her cheat. He didn’t make her empty inside. He didn’t make her bored. He simply didn’t perform whatever emotional acrobatics she decided wasn’t enough that she was entitled to.

When he points this out, calmly, the therapist nods in a way that feels downright patronising. Her words validate his feelings but belittle him as though he was the dumb one in the room. The emotionally immature one who didn’t understand how marriages worked.

His wife speaks more than he does, she cries and rarely looks at him as she vents to the therapist. Of course she does. She’s fluent in the language of dissatisfaction. She talks about her loneliness, about feeling unseen and carrying the emotional weight of the family.

Mencken sits back and listens, jaw tight, thinking that if this is justice, it’s a poorly fucking designed system. By the time the session ends, he feels wrung out and vastly accused. Like he’s been cross examined for a crime he didn’t commit and charged with something he is expected to apologise for.

“His name is Juan,” Mencken sighs, interrupting his wife’s long winded story about the man she so often fucked at the country club.

Sara looks back at the therapist, “It’s not, he’s just being racist because he’s Latino.”

The therapist narrows her eyes, “Why does it matter what his name is? John, Juan, Matthew, Benjamin… It could be any name under the sun and you’d still feel the same resentment. That your wife is making love with another man, no?”

Mencken scoffs and shakes his head, “Making love? Jesus Christ… I don’t care that she’s fucking someone else. I just don’t see why it’s somehow my fault.”

His wife schedules the next appointment before they leave.

Walking back to the car, they’re both quiet again. Not reconciled. Not soothed. Not remedied in any way shape or form. Just empty. Mencken opens the driver’s door and exhales as he sits down, exhausted from hearing the same things over and over, but this time with an audience. What an absolute waste of fucking time, he thought.

Therapy hasn’t made Sara feel any lighter about her marriage or brought her any level of clarity. It merely armed her with a new vocabulary she’d inevitably deploy as a guise of emotional maturity to hold over her husband. She’ll throw in the word ‘accountability’ at least three times the next time they argue, he could bet money on it.

He keeps his eyes forward, replaying the session in his head despite telling himself he wouldn’t. The therapist’s tone when she asked him questions, the way certain words were weighted with bias. The subtle pivot from Sara’s actions to his responses, as if the responsibility lay with him and not her.

He feels wronged. That’s the simplest word for it. Not guilty. Not confused. Wronged. Like he’s been asked to apologise for breaking something he didn’t touch.

Eventually once they pull into the driveway, neither of them rushes to get out. There’s a moment where the engine idles and the house looms ahead with its freshly manicured lawn, looking exactly the same as it did before they left. Nothing would change, of course. Not after one session of couples therapy at least. Maybe not even after ten or twenty. Deep down, Mencken wondered if anything would be able to fix their marriage, or if it was just doomed from the second they stood at the altar all those years ago.

Sara exhales gently, “I’m going to stay at my sister’s house tonight… I think some space will let us process this afternoon a bit better,” she says calmly, opening the door and getting out of the car.

Mencken remains seated a little longer, hands drifting from the wheel and falling into his lap as he watched her walk inside. He exhales, rubs a hand down his face and pulls out his phone.

You had responded with an image, not giving him a clue like he’d asked but giving him the answer as clear as day. The angle from which you’re seated is unmistakable. A pianist’s view. Black and white keys with sheet music half visible at the top, the edges worn and lightly annotated in pencil.

He studies the photo longer than necessary. Of course it’s piano. Fuck, it fits you so perfectly. The instrument that requires both hands, full attention and perfect timing. Nimble fingers met with strength. Structured enough to satisfy discipline, expressive enough to leave room for emotion.

He feels something in his chest loosen, a small, private hum of recognition and a quick note to self at this unexpected thing he’d learnt about you. There’s so many facets about you he’s yet to discover, it almost stirred a sense of excitement and determination to try and figure them all out. To peel back the layers behind what made you, you.

What are you doing tonight?

It’s a simple question. Innocent enough for now. But he’s aware of the weight it carries, the way it pushes forward instead of standing still and waiting. He gets out of the car and locks it behind him, phone still in his hand with the engine ticking as it cooled down.

Nothing, why?

His expression settles into something more focused as he reaches the front door, typing back and sending another message before stepping into the threshold of his home. His family home, shared with both wife and son.

I’ve got the house to myself, if you wanted to swing by on your way home. We could order take out, have a drink? Up to you… It’s 5921 Chesterfield Rd, McLean.

Walking into the kitchen, he pours himself a drink he doesn’t particularly want but feels like he needs and very much deserves after the events of today. He leans against the kitchen island as he takes a sip, hearing his wife upstairs arranging an overnight bag before coming downstairs again.

“I can pick James up tomorrow morning on my way home, probably around eleven or so,” she says swinging the bag over her shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about being a parent.“

Mencken looks up from where he’s standing in the kitchen, glass in hand. He nods once, because he knows nodding is easier. Then he notices the fact she’d touched up her lipstick and spritzed herself with fresh perfume. He catches it as she passes, the scent briefly occupying the space between them like a third party. His mind does the math automatically. Sister’s house. Overnight bag. Lipstick. Perfume.

It doesn’t add up, but then again, it never really does.

He wonders, not for the first time, whether she’s actually going to her sister’s house or whether she’s heading somewhere else. Another man’s house. Another man’s bed. Someone who will listen long enough to make her feel justified before getting what he wanted from her. Possibly Juan. The thought doesn’t land with the sharp pain it once did. It settles instead, all heavy and dull like an old bruise he occasionally pressed to check if it still hurt. It didn’t.

“Okay,” he says, voice even. Neutral. The word of a man who has learned how to conserve his energy.

She nods, either satisfied or disappointed, he can’t tell anymore. Once he hears the door close behind her and the engine of her car start, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for years. And like divine timing from the universe, his phone buzzes on the counter. He glances down at the notification, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he read your reply.

Easy, I’ll be there around 6

Whatever his wife was doing tonight, wherever she was going, felt far less relevant now than it ever had before. This time he had his own plans with infidelity.

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