the door and wrapping it around my body.
“You sure?” Mark asked with a small smile.
“Positive.” I said nothing more and let my expression do the talking instead. Mark quickly got the message and shut the door with sigh. As he left the bathroom I let out one of my own before stepping from the shower and reaching for the big terrycloth robe that hung on the back of the door.
I put it on, pulled the sash tight and turned to the mirror, where I concentrated on my reflection as I brushed my wet hair away from my face. I looked so young and plain and innocent without my makeup, every bit the schoolgirl that Ethan pretended I was. But I knew the truth of who I really was. I was a cheating wife. An unfaithful strumpet. A whore.
And I was a liar, not just to Mark but to myself. I’d told myself that what I was doing wasn’t really cheating. Now there was no question. I’d told myself it was casual, but even now I couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan Willoughby and how his mouth had felt on my breasts. I told myself it was Mark’s fault, but it wasn’t. Not really.
It was mine.
“I won’t see him again,” I said quietly to my reflection. “That’s it. It’s done. I won’t do this anymore.” I turned and pushed the robe aside to look at my bum, wincing as I did. It was striped with purplish lines that would take God-only-knows how long to fade. No, I could not do this anymore at all.
I quickly rubbed some cream onto my face and then opened the bathroom door, listening for sounds to indicate where Mark might be. I could hear the strains of Dr. Who coming from downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d be left to myself now, at least for an hour.
I put on my most unattractive pair of high waist knickers and flannel pajama pants and shirt before tucking myself in bed with a glass of water and a sleeping pill. I was not eager to face lying to Mark again, and if he found me sleeping when he came up to bed later I’d not have to fib and say I was too tired to entertain his attentions.
The pill worked quickly, but my sleep was not deep. All night was plagued by dreams of searching for something I knew I would never find.
When I awoke, it was to find Mark gone. On the pillow was a chocolate bar and a note reading, “Love you, tonight perhaps?”
I’d forgotten that he was headed in early to work early to welcome visiting teams from other schools participating in the science fair. Again I was thankful for his absence, and felt guilty for being thankful. But I had much to sort out in my head as I went to the closet to dress.
I reached for the dowdiest thing I owned, a pair of rather shapeless jeans and a worn but comfortable fisherman’s sweater and pair of clogs. But as I held them I thought of how I felt wearing those prettier things. I felt more feminine, more submissive somehow and there was something delightful about that, something I appreciated even if Mark never would.
I put the drab clothes back and selected a long, flowing black skirt, strappy black heels and v-necked silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons. As I put them on I noticed a pile of folded clothes sitting on the bedroom chair by the door. It was the outfit from the previous night and I realized in horror that I’d left it in the wash. Mark, ever the dutiful husband, had obviously taken them out and put them on to dry. I wondered if he thought it odd that the entire outfit, including knickers, had been thrown into the wash with disastrous results. The hot water had felted and shrunk the sweater, and the color from the skirt had bled into the blouse. The outfit was all but ruined.
My eyes filled with tears as I picked the clothing up and tucked it onto a shelf in the closet. The laundry mishap was another of a string of odd behaviors that Mark would have to be blind to miss. But it wasn’t too late, and I reminded myself that the whole mess was over now, and that I could concentrate on redeeming myself in my own eyes for what I’d
“You sure?” Mark asked with a small smile.
“Positive.” I said nothing more and let my expression do the talking instead. Mark quickly got the message and shut the door with sigh. As he left the bathroom I let out one of my own before stepping from the shower and reaching for the big terrycloth robe that hung on the back of the door.
I put it on, pulled the sash tight and turned to the mirror, where I concentrated on my reflection as I brushed my wet hair away from my face. I looked so young and plain and innocent without my makeup, every bit the schoolgirl that Ethan pretended I was. But I knew the truth of who I really was. I was a cheating wife. An unfaithful strumpet. A whore.
And I was a liar, not just to Mark but to myself. I’d told myself that what I was doing wasn’t really cheating. Now there was no question. I’d told myself it was casual, but even now I couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan Willoughby and how his mouth had felt on my breasts. I told myself it was Mark’s fault, but it wasn’t. Not really.
It was mine.
“I won’t see him again,” I said quietly to my reflection. “That’s it. It’s done. I won’t do this anymore.” I turned and pushed the robe aside to look at my bum, wincing as I did. It was striped with purplish lines that would take God-only-knows how long to fade. No, I could not do this anymore at all.
I quickly rubbed some cream onto my face and then opened the bathroom door, listening for sounds to indicate where Mark might be. I could hear the strains of Dr. Who coming from downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d be left to myself now, at least for an hour.
I put on my most unattractive pair of high waist knickers and flannel pajama pants and shirt before tucking myself in bed with a glass of water and a sleeping pill. I was not eager to face lying to Mark again, and if he found me sleeping when he came up to bed later I’d not have to fib and say I was too tired to entertain his attentions.
The pill worked quickly, but my sleep was not deep. All night was plagued by dreams of searching for something I knew I would never find.
When I awoke, it was to find Mark gone. On the pillow was a chocolate bar and a note reading, “Love you, tonight perhaps?”
I’d forgotten that he was headed in early to work early to welcome visiting teams from other schools participating in the science fair. Again I was thankful for his absence, and felt guilty for being thankful. But I had much to sort out in my head as I went to the closet to dress.
I reached for the dowdiest thing I owned, a pair of rather shapeless jeans and a worn but comfortable fisherman’s sweater and pair of clogs. But as I held them I thought of how I felt wearing those prettier things. I felt more feminine, more submissive somehow and there was something delightful about that, something I appreciated even if Mark never would.
I put the drab clothes back and selected a long, flowing black skirt, strappy black heels and v-necked silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons. As I put them on I noticed a pile of folded clothes sitting on the bedroom chair by the door. It was the outfit from the previous night and I realized in horror that I’d left it in the wash. Mark, ever the dutiful husband, had obviously taken them out and put them on to dry. I wondered if he thought it odd that the entire outfit, including knickers, had been thrown into the wash with disastrous results. The hot water had felted and shrunk the sweater, and the color from the skirt had bled into the blouse. The outfit was all but ruined.
My eyes filled with tears as I picked the clothing up and tucked it onto a shelf in the closet. The laundry mishap was another of a string of odd behaviors that Mark would have to be blind to miss. But it wasn’t too late, and I reminded myself that the whole mess was over now, and that I could concentrate on redeeming myself in my own eyes for what I’d
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