Adultery The Language of Her Heart

[yazhiniram]

Arjun walked out of his room, already dressed. He was wearing his usual office shirt and pants, and combing his hair with one hand. The other hand held his phone.
He moved around the hall, checking his bag, adjusting his sleeves. He was in his own world.
He stopped near the main door and said, “Anni, I’m leaving.”
I was standing near the kitchen, wiping the slab.
I didn’t look at him. “Hmm,” I said, without turning.
He didn’t wait for more. Just opened the door and walked out.
The door closed.
The lift started moving.
And the house became quiet again.

I stood there for a few seconds.
Wiped my hands, placed the cloth down.
Walked slowly to the sofa and sat down.
The fan above turned slowly. Sunlight from the balcony was falling across the floor in patches.
It was the usual morning.
But I could feel something under my skin.

The phone buzzed.
I picked it up.
Raj.
“Good morning. Hope your head’s okay today.”
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Then typed:
“Head’s fine. But your hand left a memory somewhere.”
I sent the message.
No smile. No drama.
Just a reply.
I kept the phone aside.
Leant back.
Let the silence stay.

A few minutes passed.
Another message.
“Didn’t expect it to stay there. Some things stay longer than we think.”
I read it once. Then typed:
“Some people should think before touching.”
No reply came after that.
But I could feel his eyes on the screen somewhere.

I stood up and walked to the bedroom.
Picked a towel and clothes, and entered the bathroom.

I undressed slowly.
Untied my nighty and let it fall.
Stood under the light, looked at my body in the mirror for a moment.
Breasts were soft, a bit heavy. No support. No effort to shape them.
I tied my hair up and turned on the water.

The water was just warm enough.
First it hit my shoulders.
Then my back.
Then slowly ran down between my breasts.
I closed my eyes and stood still for a while.
Let the water do its work.
But my mind didn’t stop.

I remembered how his hand pressed me.
Not soft. Not hard.
But firm.
Not by mistake.
It stayed for long enough.
And even after all that… I didn’t push him away.
I didn’t even shout.
That thought stayed with me more than the touch.

I picked up the soap and cleaned myself slowly.
Arms. Neck. Breasts. Stomach. Legs.
My palm moved down slowly, not with excitement—but with quiet need.
Not pleasure.
Just relief.
The heat under my navel wasn’t going away.

I washed off and stepped out.
Dried my body part by part.
Pressed the towel under my breasts.
Then between my thighs.
I stood for a while in front of the mirror.
Felt my skin cooling.
But the warmth inside hadn’t left.

I walked to the cupboard and opened it.
Picked a simple pink saree.
Cotton.
Soft.
Not too old.
Not too tight.
The kind I wear when I want to feel light, not dressed up.
I wore a plain blouse. No bra.
The blouse sat comfortably. A bit loose near the sides.
Tied the strings at the back.
I didn’t use a pin for the pallu.
Just let it fall.
Tied the saree low on the waist.
Didn’t look in the mirror again.

I stepped back into the hall.
Hair damp.
Feet clean.
The floor felt cool under my toes.
I sat down on the sofa, legs stretched out.
The saree pleats opened slightly near my thighs.
My blouse stuck a bit near my sides.
I didn’t fix anything.
Let it stay.

The phone was silent now.
But the thoughts weren’t.
Even water hadn’t washed away what I was feeling.
And somehow…
I didn’t want it to.

Morning still hot.
Even with the fan spinning in full speed above me, my back was already damp again. The cotton saree I had changed into after the bath was starting to cling in places. Behind my knees. Under my breasts. Along my waistline.
The air felt heavy. Still. Like it was pressing down on the house.
I had opened all the windows. Left the balcony door ajar too.
But not a single breeze had come in.
The kind of summer heat that didn’t burn loudly—but just sat quietly on your skin, making you aware of every part of your body that was covered, wrapped, or tucked.

I had just finished folding the last set of clothes and placed them on the sofa when my phone rang.
Arjun.
“Anni, courier came from the Bangalore office. It dropped in the security cabin.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll take it in the evening when I get back.”
“Okay.”
He hung up.
I put the phone down.

That should’ve been it.
It wasn’t urgent. The parcel wasn’t mine. He’d pick it up in the evening. Done.
But somehow, my body didn’t want to sit.
Something about that box being there—resting downstairs, and that man sitting near it—made me feel restless. Like my skin needed to move.
Maybe it was the heat.
Or maybe it was just me.

I walked into the bedroom, stood in front of the mirror for a second.
My blouse was already showing light sweat marks near the underarms.
The cotton saree pleats were holding tight near the hip.
I adjusted the tuck slightly, ran my fingers over the edge of the waist fold, smoothing it.
The blouse was soft. Worn. No bra underneath.
I adjusted the pallu, pulled it tighter across the chest—not too tight, just enough to feel the fabric move.
I didn’t look at my reflection again.
Picked up the keys from the table.
Locked the main door behind me.

The corridor was dim.
Fan near the stairs turned slowly. Not that it helped.
I pressed the lift button.
The panel blinked softly.
Lift opened.
I stepped inside.
The air inside was no better.
It wasn’t hot—but not cool either. Just dry and closed. I felt a small drop of sweat slide from the back of my neck, into the blouse.

I stood facing the lift mirror.
Didn’t really look at myself.
But my eyes noticed the way my pallu sat across my chest.
Not pinned.
Just folded loosely.
The blouse sat normal—but I could see the way the side opened slightly near the underarm. Small space. Just skin.
I didn’t fix it.
Didn’t feel like it.

The lift beeped softly with each floor.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Every few seconds, I felt the weight of my own body differently.
The saree pulled at my hip.
The fabric sticking near my waistline.
A little itch forming at the edge of my underbust.
Nothing sharp.
Just soft heat building, and staying.

When the lift stopped and the door opened to the ground floor, the first thing I felt was the shift in the air.
Not better.
Just hotter.
The corridor was warmer than my flat.
The sunlight outside was sharp. Strong.
It bounced off the tiles and into the entrance area.
But I didn’t stop.
I stepped out and walked slowly toward the gate.

The guard’s cabin was at the corner.
That usual plastic chair. A fan inside the box spinning, but the man sitting under it was still sweating.
I could see him before he saw me.
He was sitting with one leg bent, resting on the chair leg, slightly slouched.
His shirt was half stuck to his back. He looked tired. Or bored.
But the moment he saw movement—me walking toward him—he straightened up fast.
Almost like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
His eyes met mine for half a second.
Then dropped.
Back to the ground.
Like he was waiting for me to speak first.
Or maybe just scared to say anything wrong.

I kept walking.
Not fast.
Just normal steps.
But inside?
I could already feel something warm spreading down my belly.
Not nerves.
Just awareness.
That he saw me.
That I saw him notice.
And that we both remembered what happened the last time I opened a door with wet nighty.

The path near the cabin was hotter than I expected.
The tiles were baking under the late morning sun. No breeze. The air felt like it was holding its breath.
Inside the small cabin, the pedestal fan spun with a dry squeak. It wasn’t helping him much. His shirt was already clinging to his back, darker around the armpits and spine.
He was sitting lazily at first—left leg folded, one slipper half hanging off. Like he had been in that spot all morning.
But the moment he looked up and saw me approaching—his whole body changed.
His spine straightened.
His hand reached for nothing.
And that casual, useless posture turned stiff and unsure.

I stopped at the edge of the open gate.
He blinked at me. Eyes unsure.
I didn’t give him time to decide.
“Oye. Courier?”
My voice was flat. Not angry. Not kind. Just direct.
His mouth opened quickly. “Yes… madam. Inside, in cabin.”
He stepped aside, letting me pass.
I walked straight into the cabin and saw the parcel resting near the back wall.
It was big.
One of those square brown boxes with rough tape all around it. Looked like a TV box—deep, wide, and annoying to move.
I bent slightly to get a better look.
Then bent more.
Saree shifted with me. My hips pulled the pleats tighter. My pallu slid slightly off my shoulder but didn’t fall.
I reached with both hands, gripping the sides.
Tried lifting once.
It didn’t budge.
Adjusted. Tried again. Nothing.
My back arched a little more.
My chest pressed in as my arms extended forward.
The blouse tightened along the sides.
Sweat was already forming again under my breasts.

I could feel him behind me.
Pretending to look elsewhere.
But I knew.
I knew exactly where his eyes were.
Even if they didn’t move, they were fighting to.
Even if his head was down, I could feel the weight of his stare burning behind me.

Three times.
He rang the bell three times that day.
Not once. Not twice. Three.
Like he couldn’t wait.
And I had stepped out, wet, barely dressed, nighty sticking to every inch of me. A towel that covered nothing. No bra. No lining.
He stood right there. Right where he is now.
Mouth dry. Eyes shameless.
And now he can’t even offer to lift a box?

I let go of the parcel.
Stood straight.
Turned slowly toward him.
He was standing there, half-stiff, half-nervous. Palms by his side. Head slightly down.
I stared at him.
Didn’t hide the judgment in my face.
“You can’t see it’s heavy?”
He jumped slightly.
“Sorry, madam! Sorry…”
He rushed forward, bent to the box quickly. Almost scared to touch it.
He wiped his hands once on his pants before lifting.
He grunted softly as he pulled it up. Big box. Not meant for one man.
But he held it. Arms wrapped around. Chest pressed into the edge.
Balanced it on one thigh and adjusted his hold.
His breathing changed.
I watched the back of his shirt stretch.
The sweat patch ran all the way from collar to belt.

“If needed… I can… carry it up for you, madam,” he said softly, still looking at the floor.

I didn’t reply.
Not immediately.
I just watched him.
The way his arms were trembling slightly—not from the box, but from being this close to me again.
From standing in front of the woman he had seen half-naked. The one who didn’t cover herself fast. The one who scolded him that day but didn’t close the door right away.
He’d been holding that memory since then.
And now he was holding this box—sweaty, silent, nervous.
Good.
Let him.

I lifted one eyebrow.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t thank.
Just said, with a straight face—
“Then carry it.”

He didn’t wait for a second word.
The moment I told him to carry it, he turned, held the box tight, and stepped out of the cabin.
His steps were slow, careful.
The box was big enough to block half his view, and heavy enough that it was pressing into his stomach. His arms wrapped around it awkwardly, trying not to drop it.
I didn’t rush.
Just followed him.
My steps were easy. My eyes watched his back.
Sweat had already spread across his shirt. It clung to his spine like a second skin. His pants were loose, belt hanging off the side slightly, one corner twisted near his waist.
Each time he shifted the weight, his shirt lifted slightly.
Not enough to reveal anything. But enough to show how uncomfortable he was.
Good.

We reached the lift.
He stood in front of it, struggling slightly to balance the box and press the button.
I sighed. Loud enough for him to hear.
“Move aside.”
He stepped a little to the side, box still in hand.
I leaned forward and pressed the button.
The panel lit up.
Lift came down slowly.
I could feel the sweat already forming near my waist again.
The heat was worse near the lift shaft. Closed air. No breeze.
I looked at him once, the box almost covering half his chest.
“You’re going to drop it if you keep shaking like that.”
He shook his head quickly. “No madam… I’m fine.”
“Hmm. Better be.”

The lift dinged.
Door slid open.
It was narrow. Same old one.
Steel walls, mirror on one side, small fan that didn’t work half the time.
I turned to him, gave him one look.
“Hold it properly. If it falls on my foot, I’ll make sure it lands on your head next.”
He nodded nervously, adjusted his grip again.
I didn’t wait.
I stepped in first.
Turned around, facing the lift door.
He followed.
There wasn’t space for anything else.
Now he was directly in front of me, still holding the box, trying to stand straight.
I stayed exactly behind him.
Less than two inches between us.
My face was now facing his back.
My breath—if I exhaled just a little harder—would land straight on the back of his neck.

He was almost my height.
Maybe a touch taller.
But close enough that I could see the collar seam of his shirt was half-torn.
His hair was slightly wet. Not fresh from bath—just from the heat. A mixture of sweat and dust.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t shift.
Let the silence press against his spine the way my breath was about to.
He stood there like he had frozen.
Didn’t dare turn.
Didn’t dare breathe too loud.
The only sound was the slow groaning of the lift door, sliding shut behind us.

And when it closed…
The real heat began.

The lift had started to move, but it was crawling.
I could hear the dull hum from the motor somewhere above, like an old ceiling fan struggling to pick up speed.
Inside, the air was thick.
No circulation.
No breeze.
The fan on the ceiling had turned twice and given up, making a tiny whining sound before going dead.
My blouse had already started sticking to my back.
Under my breast, sweat was collecting again—warm and thin, following the same trail from earlier.

He stood in front of me, holding the box tight, arms wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him stable.
The box wasn’t even close to his chest anymore—it was resting slightly on his stomach now, his hands gripping the sides.
And in that tiny lift space, I was less than two inches behind him.
Almost touching.
Not quite.
But close enough that if I took a deeper breath, I could feel the air move between us.

The smell hit me slowly.
It wasn’t sharp like perfume or soap.
It was deep, layered.
Like cloth that had been worn too long in the sun. Sweat soaked into the back collar. Skin unwashed from a full shift.
It wasn’t unbearable.
But it wasn’t pleasant either.
It sat in my nose like a memory I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I didn’t step away.
There was nowhere to go.
The lift was barely wide enough for both of us.
So I just stayed there.
Breathing through my mouth once.
Then my nose again—testing if I could tolerate it.
I could.
But only just.

We had crossed the first floor.
Lift beeped faintly for the second.
Then—
Without warning—
A loud clunk.
Hard stop.

The floor dropped slightly beneath our feet.
Not much.
Just a small, jerking slip—like the lift had changed its mind halfway between the second and third floor.
My body shifted forward before I could register it.
And my balance—completely gone.

I crashed into him.
Not lightly.
My full chest—both breasts—pressed hard into his back.
Soft fabric of the blouse spread and flattened instantly.
The pallu that had been sitting on my shoulder slipped down and bunched between us.
My stomach knocked into the edge of the box he was holding.
And instinct took over—
My arms wrapped around him.
Tight.
Not careful.
One arm across his chest.
One hand gripping just above his stomach.

It wasn’t a hug.
It was a reflex.
But it felt like a hug.
A full-bodied, heat-soaked, chest-to-back embrace.
I was completely on him.
Pinned against his sweaty shirt, my cheek brushing the upper part of his back, hair touching his shoulder.
The front of my body fit into his back like we were molded for a second.

He jolted forward, hit the front panel of the lift with a soft thud.
Box shifted in his grip.
He bent slightly forward to save it.
But he didn’t drop it.
And he didn’t move away from me either.
He froze.
As if his brain had shut down completely.

I didn’t react for one full second.
Then two.
My arms stayed around him.
My body resting against his for just a moment longer than needed.

Then I blinked.
Came back to my senses.
Pulled away.
Quick.
Let my hands fall back to my sides.
Stepped one inch backward, then another—enough to break the body contact.
Fixed my pallu over my shoulder.
Straightened my back.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t speak.

He still hadn’t moved.
Still holding the box, still facing the door.
Still breathing shallow, chest rising and falling like he was afraid to move a muscle.
The back of his neck was wet now.
With sweat?
Or something else?
I didn’t care.

I stood behind him again.
Exactly where I was before.
But everything between us had changed.
And both of us knew it.