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Why do I want him?
Is it because I am craving a touch from someone else?
Shane is at the end of the bar, nothing’s separating us. Only a glass which I’m holding in my hand.
His band members start to leave my bar, leaving just the two of us here by ourselves. Shane reaches for my hand, turns it over, and pulls a pen out of my pocket that I use for writing food orders. When he’s done, he blows on it and steps back.
“Call me when you think you aren’t married. But believe me, I have no qualms about sleeping with a married woman.” Shane winks and walks out.
My heart beats loudly in my chest as he goes, and I have to remember to breathe.
The last man I was attracted to is now my husband.
Now, I’m way wary of who to let in. Could they fuck me over as well?
Maybe record me to?
I hate Whiskey for putting those insecurities inside of me. I never had them before him and his bullshit.
After closing up, I head home, constantly looking at my hand. I shouldn’t do it. I know it would be wrong. I’m a married woman, and I’m not a cheater. I have strong beliefs in that. But is it cheating if it’s fake? The certificate might be real, but the marriage is anything but.
Pulling up to my home—technically his home—I notice his car is parked in the garage.
What on earth is he doing here?
Wondering if I should pull away and come back later or just go in, I decide to go in, because this can’t be my life avoiding the asshole. I need to face him head-on.
Gathering all my strength, I pull my jacket on and walk inside. When I do, he’s sitting at the dining room table with food, waiting for me, as if he hadn’t left.
“Whiskey.”
He turns to face me. His eyes roam me as I walk closer to him.
Pulling out a seat, I sit across from him. “Why are you here?”
“To see you, of course,” he answers.
“Why?” He pushes a plate toward me full of food.
“Can I not visit my wife?” he asks.
I watch him for motive. He’s here for something. What? I just don’t know yet. I look down at my hand, the one with Shane’s number on it. I was thinking of calling him. Maybe.
“What’s that on your hand?” Whiskey’s eyes glance down, and I pull my hand away and place it under the table.
“What do you want?”
“What’s on your hand?”
“A number,” I answer him truthfully.
“Who’s number?”
“A drummer.”
“Name?”
“Shane,” I answer.
