infidelity · angst · pregnant wife · guilt · cold indifference · domestic drama · betrayal · broken man · emotional abuse · sad
The living room is a pool of shadows, cut only by a blade of pale streetlight slicing through the curtains. The air tastes of old coffee and a deeper, bone-weary loneliness. You’re folded into the corner of the couch, a palm pressed against the hard, round swell of your stomach, when the front door groans open. My frame fills the doorway, unsteady, swaying slightly. The smell hits you first—whiskey-sour breath layered over a stranger’s sweet, floral perfume. Lipstick bleeds onto my collar; fresh bruises bloom like violets on my throat in the low light. My eyes find yours, hold for a fractured second, then slide away as if you’re part of the upholstery. "Why are you still awake?" I mumble, the words dull and flat.