Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

The sunlight had climbed halfway up the living room tiles.
She had just wiped the dining table. A few grains of dried sambar rice still clung to the bottom of her fingers. The kids had gone. The elder one without socks, the younger one with a sticker stuck to his hair.
She poured water from the copper jug into a tumbler and sat near the window.
The steel chair was hot. She shifted slightly, letting the back of her nightie unstick from her skin. It clung around her thighs, especially where the sweat had settled while she was wiping the kitchen slab earlier.
She hadn’t changed since morning.
After that moment with Raj… she hadn’t touched her wardrobe.
That accidental bend, the half-open zip, the way he stood near the kitchen door without stepping in—polite, as always. But still, her chest had refused to stay still since.

---

Her Mind – Me:
He didn’t look down. But something in the silence told me… he had already seen.
And chose to look away.
Even now, her nipple felt slightly sore—brushed too hard against the cloth as she’d rushed to zip herself up.

---

She was wiping her face with the end of her nightie when the phone rang.
Not a message. A call.
Kartik.
She picked up.
P: “Haan.”
K: “Lunch?”
P: “Going to. Rasam’s on the stove.”
K: “Hmm. Listen. Arjun’s coming.”
She paused, her hand stopping halfway to adjust her hair.
P: “Where?”
K: “Chennai. Transfer. Same company. New role. Starting next week.”
She stood up slowly, turned off the fan, and walked to the kitchen.
P: “He found a room?”
K: “No, no. I told him to stay with us for now. A few days. Till he figures out hostel or PG.”
She didn’t speak immediately.
The lid on the rasam vessel was shaking. Boil was starting.
Kartik’s voice returned. “It’s okay no, pa? You know him. He’s comfortable here.”
She reached for the ladle.
P: “Yeah.”
K: “He’ll come Saturday. Sent a bag ahead by courier. I’ll bring it home if it reaches office.”
P: “Hmm.”
K: “That’s all. I’ll be in calls till 5. Don’t wait for me.”
P: “Okay.”
Call ended.

---

She didn’t move right away.
Just stared at the rasam bubbling like it had nowhere else to go.
Arjun.
It had been two years. Maybe more.
The last time he visited, he was thinner. Still talking about interviews and Bangalore traffic and his broken shoe lace.
Same crooked smile. A bag of snacks in one hand. T-shirt hanging off his shoulder like he still hadn’t learned how to wear a proper collar.
The boys had jumped on him, called him chithappa like it was a cartoon name.
She had made coffee. He had slurped it like a hostel student.
And now he was coming again.
Not as a guest.
Not for a weekend.
To stay.

---

She opened the fridge, pulled out a lemon, cut it into four, and stared at the juice trickling down her palm.
Why did her breath feel… tight?
It wasn’t fear.
Just something else.
Something that made her press her thighs together without realising.

---

She wiped her hand on the towel, turned the gas off, and let the steam fill the kitchen.
Her mind was quiet.
But somewhere inside, a picture of him stood up.
A boy with long arms.
Hair that always looked like he had just woken up.
Eyes that smiled faster than his mouth.
She exhaled slowly, adjusted her nightie strap, and muttered—
“He's coming…”
As if saying it aloud would make it less real.