Domenica (+18)

chapter thirteen | new

Domenica.

In the softly lit ballroom, buzzing with anticipation for the upcoming party, I couldn't shake off my impatience. Patience wasn't a virtue I possessed. If my late-father could have a dime for every time I'm in a mess, and I could be patient, he'd be richer than before. As I observed the event organizers hustling around to perfect every detail, a subtle amusement played on my lips. The party was mere hours away, yet my husband remained conspicuously absent. It led me to ponder—what if I decided to cancel at the last minute? How would they react? The idea lingered in my thoughts, teasingly tempting, as I envisioned the disappointment on the faces of those who had worked diligently to make the night flawless. Yes, they'd be upset, but I'd still cover the cost of their efforts.

The thought made me chuckle to myself, as I watch the big bucket of white peonies being placed in the center of the round table. The ballroom, initially set for a joyous celebration, now transformed into a stage for a different kind of narrative—one where the missing guest took center stage, and the woman contemplating cancellation held the reins of anticipation.

"Well?" I half-heartedly ask, my butler, Sam. With his stoic face, he simply lifted his shoulders telling me he hasn't have the answer that I'm looking for.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Where on earth are you, you fuck-head?

"I'll go get ready." I stated.

The faint click of our bedroom door closing drew my attention, and my gaze fixated on the windowsill, where the most pleasurable orgasm I hadn't experienced in a long time unfolded in my mind. A rush of blood tinted my cheeks as I attempted to shake the vivid imagery away. It dawned on me—it was all in my head. He was never there, yet he lingered persistently in my thoughts. It seemed futile; no matter how vigorously I tried to expel him from my mind, reminders of him surfaced everywhere.

I couldn't help but reminisce—the soft brush of his breath against my lips, the intensity of his dark caramel eyes etching into my skin. Notably, I observed, his broad hands refrained from enveloping mine, a detail that played on a loop in my thoughts.

Will I be seeing him tonight?

I scoff to myself as I rub my legs with the softest towel I could find. It was me who practically banished him from my sight, yet here I was, yearning to see him. Doubt lingered; I highly doubted I would catch a glimpse of him tonight.

I reached for a maroon dress peacefully hanging in my drawer. It's a backless, long-sleeve dress with a hem that gracefully reaches the floor. Tight-fitted and worn only once, it held memories of me and my husband's first dinner together. As I slipped into the dress, a content smile adorned my face, reassured that it still fit. However, the smile waned as memories flooded back—recollections of the happiness I felt when I last wore it.

Do you ever take a moment to reflect on how life used to be good, and find yourself wondering what caused the shift over time? This dress, it embodies my essence. If I were to put it into words, it's as if I'm the lead in front of a marching band. Wearing it, I felt content, anchored within myself. I wanted him to recall his initial impression of me, to remember that I wouldn't need anyone if the night took a turn. I aimed for him to associate me with the memory of going out with a woman who was beautiful yet frightening at the same time though someone who sparked excitement, compelling him to ask for another night.

And I hope by wearing this, it would spark his memory back to life. About how he used to want to hold my hand every time we're walking, how he used to grab me by my waist every time someone dares to cast a desirous glance my way. By wearing this dress, it's also my effort to resurrect the old me—the one exuding confidence, a person who believed that nothing in the world could ever take away what belonged to her.