Trigger Warning: Mature Scenes ahead.
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The humid and sticky evening was charged with an electric energy between us, like static when you feel the shock run through your flesh. I couldn't look at Zayn. I couldn't to talk him. I stepped out of his way, but clumsily, we hot footed around each other. Like strangers we sat around the dinner table and spoke only to communicate.
"What was Tina saying to you at school?" Like swallowing vomit, I held my deep-rooted envy threatening to rear its ugly tone.
"Nothing much. The same stuff." Zayn stuffed a spoon full of paste into Aymaan's mouth. Dinner time was always a fight with Aymaan.
"Why were you and Jag fighting?"
Zayn broke his glance with Aymaan and shrugged his shoulders. "He thinks I owe him from a game of poker. He's lost the plot."
"You gamble?"
"Meh! It's a harmless flutter." He brushed it off like it was nothing.
"Do you owe him money?"
Aymaan jumped out of Zayn's lap, and Zayn chased him before he could answer my question.
Later that evening, when I was washing the dishes, Zayn's arm pressed against me tightly that I could feel the hairs on his forearm against my arm. Heat rushed through me and I all I could remember was that kiss. However hard I ignored it, my body's response to his fleeting touch filled me with longing and shame. It was time to unlock my bedroom door and open for Zayn to loot.
****
But he didn't come. I felt like a fool pretending to be asleep but listening to him singing 'Twinkle twinkle little star' to Zara. Hot and humidity at its peak, I opened my window for fresh cold air but that night was cruel. The cold air still. I couldn't think straight, restless and wrestling with the blanket.
A desire to talk, to spend time with Zayn was ravaging me, but would I seem desperate that I want him? Yes! I was his wife, but still just by name. But if he did come in, would he want to be intimate? Eventually he'd see my old scars that I cut myself and he'd surely gag. After all he called me old, flirtatious and I should act my age. Now he had the opportunity to mock my scars. No, I couldn't open myself to insults and abuse. I was just about getting over last night, I couldn't do it.
Dressed in my knee length cool white night shirt, I ventured to the kitchen for a glass of ice cold water. In the fridge, I took out a bottle and poured it into the tumbler. I pressed the cold glass against my burning cheek with pleasure. It would be another long night thinking of Zayn who slept peacefully in the adjacent room.
When I made my way into my dark bedroom, I closed the door but found Zayn going through his drawer. The splash of light from the moon highlighted Zayn's large build. Suddenly the bedroom shrunk with his presence. I swallowed hard and stood in the far corner watching Zayn dressed in his grey boxers.
"Have you seen my white and black t-shirt? I'm burning hot. I should have bought that fan which was on offer." He complained.
I grumbled something incomprehensively.
He found his shirt and pulled it over his head. "They said it's the hottest day of the year."
"Yeah, twenty-six Celsius." I elaborated. Somehow my mind had a tendency of storying useless information and revealing it when I was nervous. "It might be a mini heat wave with five percent chance of precipitation."
"That's useful to know." I wasn't sure if he was being serious or his tone was thick with sarcasm. He edged closer.
"What's precipi...perci..."
"Precipitation." I corrected.
His eyes now upon me.
"In meteorology, precipitation is any product of the condensation of atmospheric water vapour that falls under gravity." Oh my word! I sounded like a human Wikipedia.
Zayn crossed his arms and turned his head away. "You making me look dumb."
"No-" I ambled towards him, wary not to stand too close. "Rain. Precipitation is rain, sleet and snow." I quickly corrected worried I'd upset him.
"I know." He chuckled. "I'm pulling your leg. You're so easy to wind up."
He was teasing me. Just as soon as I relaxed in his company he bid me farewell but lingered at the door.
"Make sure you lock your door. You never know what might happen."
He edged closer towards me. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I reached up and touched his face, my hands running along his gristly beard, his nose and chin. I found is surprisingly easy to submit to his glowering gaze and manly bearing.
A tiny voice at the back of mind pleaded silently. I'm sorry Zeenat, I can't hold back any longer. I need to taste him...I need..I want Zayn. So badly. I know I'm a bad sister, but this just feels right. For one night, stay out of my head. Let me have this moment for myself. For me. For Zayn. For us.
Without warning, Zayn effortlessly plucked me up and I squealed securing my arms around his strong neck. At eye level, my legs hung either side of his hips as he held me with his hands firmly under my butt. I reached out for the door which was behind him. He moved away.
"Zayn! The door!" I waved my arms eager to lock the door in case of intrusion.
"Fuck the door." A voice emerged from the depths of his larynx that I didn't know existed. He threw me on the bed and stripped off the excuse he used to enter the room; his t-shirt.
"Don't test me a second longer." He mounted me, crawling on his fists, with his mane framing his face. I pushed him back, with my toes pressed against his naked shoulder.
"Slow down, Zayn." I pleaded.
"Why?" He grabbed my naked leg. "Is it your first time?"
"No." I gasped out of breath like I'd run up a flight of stairs. "But my first time with you."
My back against the bed, Zayn crawled on top brushing the strands of hair from my face. "Believe me Zorro, this first time, you'll never forget."
Thunder roared and lightening flashed. The torrential downpour beat against the pane of the window with the net curtains blew up in the air with the wind. Except, it didn't happen. There was no thunder. No lightening. I wished there was to cover the sounds which I'm ashamed of making. The betrayal wasn't in the act itself, that's what marriage is about; the betrayal was in my response. My toes curled with euphoria as his strong sweaty body moved rhythmically that I called out his name many times that night leaving my throat parched. Never had I experienced such a high that I lost my breath and my senses. Zayn took me to a world that I never knew existed; a height which was only meant for fun and adventurous people, not boring book nerds like me. There I was tossing and turning in worry over my scars, and here we were, our bodies entwined as one. It was evident the way I straddled him, that insane night, flicking my hair from side to side, I wanted him just as much as he wanted me.
****
Later that night events took a drastic turn for the worse. Dressed in Zayn's t-shirt I ran out of the bedroom. Emotionally charged, I ran down the steps and Zayn followed dressed in just his boxers. I shivered with anger.
"Please stop Zohra, listen to me-"
In the kitchen, I stood with my back towards Zayn. I couldn't look at him. "I don't want to listen to anything you have to say." I gasped, out of breath from the exertion running down the steps and charged with emotion.
"Please, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry-" I pulled away when he reached for my shoulders.
"Don't touch me! I don't want to talk about it."
I could hear his breaths, ragged and fast. "I don't know what happened...I...I'm sorry."
"This is it!" I spun round on my back foot. "Sorry is just a word! Sorry means nothing after what you did! I'm sorry I slept with you! I'm sorry I left my door unlocked! I'm sorry-" chocked with tears, I swallowed the rest of the sentence. 'I'm sorry I have feelings for you.'
Concealing my face with my hands in shame and humiliation, I wanted to cry but there were no tears. I had enough.
"I will always live in my sister's shadow. Zeenat will always be first! Please let me be. Just go."
It was impossible for Zayn to move on from Zeenat, I was her poor substitution.
Zayn retreated back to our bedroom and I stayed in the lounge till early in the morning. Curled up on the sofa, sleep had no place in my eyes. The blazing passion between us flashed before my eyes, my body burned with a fusion of anger and desire. Sitting up, I couldn't escape Zayn's cologne like it was running through my veins. I could feel the trace of his hands holding down my hips, squeezing the curve of my curvaceous derriere. I stood up and paced the lounge shaking the sensation of his lips ravaging my neck down towards my full breasts and gently biting my navel with his teeth. Guilt seeped through my bones like cancer when I stared at my legs. Moments ago, they pirouetted Zayn's legs with euphoric tautness.
"You stupid, stupid girl!" I rebuked. "It wasn't you. It's her! It's always been Zeenat. You're nothing! You're second best!" I cried curling into a pathetic ball.
My childhood flashed like haunted images in the dark room. I was second best to Zeenat. Even in her death. It wasn't Zayn's fault he'd climaxed panting Zeenat's name; it was my fault for entertaining the impossible.
It was 6 a.m when I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Soon the children would be wake and I had to prepare them to school. I tied my hair up and began to tidy the living room, folding the clothes, stacking the toys in a corner of the room. Should I return to my parents? Did I have a future with Zayn? How do I stop this hurt?
As I picked up Zayn's bag, the belt snapped and his hoodie and shoes spilled onto the floor. Shoved inside the hoodie were letters scrunched up like litter. I kneeled on the floor and took a closer look at the letters. They were official from the bank. Inside the bag there were more letters, in fact a stack. As I went through the letters the stark naked truth unveiled before me. In one letter there was a summons for a court hearing date for the repossession of our home. I scanned through and the date was 12th of June. Last month! Quickly, I went through the letters. I was well versed with the repossession process, we'd dealt with a few of them at the estate agents. The bank offers solutions to help with any arrears. Once that fails then the matter is taken to court, followed by a court hearing where the judge hears about the repossession order and arrange a repayment solution. If all else fails and the last port of call is possession order is granted if the judge decides that your home should be repossessed. How long had Zayn been hiding the letters?
The ultimate letter was the date of repossession of our home. The court ordered our home to be repossessed on the 7th of August. 12 days' time! The court and bank offered Zayn many opportunities to ease the burden ofrepayment and arrange an affordable plan but he failed. We'd lost the house.
On August 7th we would be evicted from our home. It was written in black and white. There was nothing I could do. It was too late. My heart sunk to the floor when it dawned on me the children would lose their house.
Oh Zayn! What have you done?!