A Collection Of Short Stories | ✔

The Faithful Wife

Isabel was fastidiously shaving her legs after a hot shower that had pleasingly burned her skin and massaged her weary bones. The pivoting mirror above the sink was misty with steam. Her long, ebony hair drenched in shampoo was odiously clogged in the drain forming a thin, white film like milk skin. The white tiled floor was slippery with scented soap and the room had a tepid atmosphere. She was apathetic to it all, humming to herself and stretching her damp, naked body.

She could intuitively feel the presence of someone sneakily entering the bathroom which put a stop to her jolly humming. Who was it? Was it . . . No, no, no. That fool didn't have keys to her apartment. Goosebumps rose on her shaved arms. An obscure figure loomed behind her, she horrifyingly spotted that on the turbid mirror. She drew in a weak breath through her mouth and audibly let it out. The swishing sound of her exhaling like a puff of wind was the intruder's undoing. Suddenly, two calloused hands cupped her bare breasts from behind and she shrieked in response which icily pierced her own red ears.

She instantaneously whirled around, her feet slipping and her falling painfully in the half-filled tub. A roar of laughter erupted in the suffocating bathroom and she groaned loudly from the agony of her back colliding against the tub. The laughter ceased immediately.

"It's only me, Isabel," the intruder spoke softly and Isabel struggled to get up. "Here, I got you."

"No, move aside." She coldly swatted his hands away, clumsily clutching the sides of the tub and lifting herself up. "Can you go out, please? I want to put on some clothes first."

"S-Sure," he stammered idiotically, perplexed as to why his wife behaved so strangely.

The minute her husband left her alone, Isabel hastily reached for her red ruffled blouse and black knee-length skirt. She angrily wore them, deliberately cursing her husband in a loud voice so he could hear her displeasure from outside. Once dressed fully, she stomped out.

"What's the matter?" He trailed after her like a frightened duckling as she circled in the apartment, harshly smacking lotion on her legs and battling with her tangled, wet hair. "Easy there. All your hair will fall out."

"My head will fall out if I spend another minute with you!" She pointed the comb balefully at him like it was a sharp knife.

He laughed which ceased immediately when he noticed how it further triggered her rage. She marched resolutely into the bedroom, flung the drawer open of her nightstand and thrust a letter on his face. He squinted at the cursive writing. When the name of the sender registered in his mind, all colour drained from his handsome face.

He started, "I can explain---"

"You don't have to. She's doing all the explaining," she said hysterically, opening the letter. She began reading in an exaggerated tone, "To my darling Robert, I'm sitting on the field of barleys where we made love. First sentence in and goddamn, you have already cheated on me! And where? On a field of barleys in Italy? What did you think you were? A fucking cliché?"

"It was one time, I swear. I got carried away by the surroundings---"

"Yes, yes, leave me in our bloody apartment and see the entire world! Make love to the Italians out in the open like beasts!"

"It's my job, Isabel---"

"To fucking transport goods, that's your fucking job!" She hurled the letter at his face, storming into the kitchen. "You're a sailor, not Magic Mike."

"It was only once, I don't know how she found our address or why she wrote a letter."

"Does she know about me?" She leaned grimly against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, tapping her feet.