Collection of Small stories

[Zigspr]

Chapter One

It was eight o'clock on the dot and perhaps the thirtieth time I had checked my phone. The apartment was quiet. The television was on, but I had turned the sound off. It flashed images of some sitcom I had seen a hundred times before, but I couldn't tell you what was happening. I sat at the end of the couch with one leg bouncing and my phone resting face-up next to me.

I picked it up: 8:03.
No messages.

I put the phone down.
Thirty seconds later, I picked it up again.

Still nothing.

I laughed quietly at myself. This was ridiculous. I'd spent years imagining tonight. Years.

I'd been the one who brought it up first, back when we were still teenagers. At first, it had been nothing more than a fantasy: a confession whispered in the dark that I would like to see her in a threesome.

Then I'd brought it up again, and again. And over time the jokes became questions, and the idea of a threesome became the idea of just her with other men, without me. And then, the questions started coming from her instead. That was when I'd known I'd won... or thought I'd won.
Her perfume still lingered in the apartment.

I glanced toward the bedroom where I'd watched her get ready earlier. She'd stood in front of the mirror, changing her earrings twice before settling on the little silver ones I'd bought her for one of our anniversaries.

I'd asked whether she was nervous.
She'd smiled at me through the mirror and said, "Yeah. A little."

"That's normal." I'd said, repeating what I had read online. But how the hell should I know? We have both only ever been with each other.

"What if I hate it?" she asked me.

"Then you come home," I said.

"And if I don't hate it?"

"Then you stay," I told her.

I'd meant it. I really had. At least, I thought I had.

I looked at the clock; 8:11.

Shivani had been gone for almost two hours. The date had started at six-thirty. Dinner first, somewhere downtown. Then to a wine bar she'd picked because it was supposed to be quiet enough to talk.

I'd helped her choose it.


I'd helped her choose her photographs for her dating profile too, and I had helped her write a response to the guys she had matched with when she didn't know what to say.



I'd sat beside her in bed while she scrolled through options, teasing her about the particularly terrible ones.
Then she'd shown me him.

Deepak.

Twenty-nine, same as us. Dark hair. Nice smile. Some kind of marketing job. His profile said he liked hiking, live music, and cooking.


We stared at his photographs for a long time. He wasn't particularly intimidating. In fact, he seemed exceedingly normal. Like the kind of guy either of us would get along with if we met him.



She'd asked what I thought, and I'd said he looked good. Then I confessed that I hadn't stopped thinking about her with him while we were inspecting his profile. Back then I hadn't felt jealous.



My phone buzzed, and I nearly dropped it.


"Having a really good time!" She had added a few smiling emojis for emphasis.

I stared at the message... then I smiled. A really good time?


I typed a few different replies before settling on the simplest: "Good," followed by a love heart emoji.
I stared at her name on my phone, wondering what she was doing right now. Was Deepak making her laugh? I wondered if she was still nervous. I wondered if he had noticed the tiny habit she had of tucking her hair behind her ear when she was embarrassed. I'd noticed that when we were nineteen.

I'd known her little habits for almost half of our lives. The expressions she made, the things she hated, the music she listened to when she was sad, the way she took her coffee. I'd known her before either of us really knew ourselves. We'd grown up together, and tonight another man was sitting across from my wife, learning things about her for the first time. For some reason, that thought hurt more than I expected.


I stood up. Heading into the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator, then closed it again. I wasn't hungry. I opened it again and poured myself another drink instead.



When I came back to the couch, my phone was still there.
No new messages. The time read 8:27.

I thought about texting her again, but I didn't. I'd promised her I wouldn't be that husband. That she didn't need to check in constantly, and that I wanted her to forget I was waiting at home and just enjoy herself. It had sounded incredibly sexy when I'd said it. Now it just sounded stupid.


For years, I'd pictured this night. Imagining myself calm and confident. Excited by the anticipation. I pictured her coming home, with that secret little smile, and telling me she liked him while I smiled and told her how happy I was for her. I'd imagined everything except this: sitting alone in a quiet apartment at half past eight with no idea what was happening, wondering for the first time whether I'd spent years asking for something I wasn't actually at all prepared for.


My phone buzzed again, and this time it wasn't a message from Shivani. It was a notification from the dating app. I was logged in on her profile so that I could see what she and her matches talked about. Someone had just liked her profile. I opened the app and stared at her profile. My wife. Smiling, beautiful, and available. For a moment, that familiar rush returned, the same excitement I'd felt every time I'd imagined another man with her. Then I remembered her message: Having a really good time.

Nine o'clock came and went without another message. She'd told me that if the date was a bust, she'd probably wrap things up around nine and come home. I kept glancing at the clock, but it was obvious her date was going well.

She had been upfront with Deepak that this date was a kind of no-expectations vibe check. He knew she was married, and knew this was her first time with another guy other than me, and that she may not want to rush things. She and I had agreed, however, that if the date went well and she felt like it, she could go back to his place if she wanted.

Nine-oh-seven. Nine-twelve. I picked up my phone, put it down, then picked it up again. At 9:17, it finally buzzed again. My heart jumped as I grabbed it. 

"He asked me back to his place. I said yes. Love you."


I read it again, and again.

'I said yes."



The words hung there on the screen, impossibly simple.



And punctuated, almost casually:

Love you.

I stared at those two words for a long time, feeling something inside me sink. I'd wanted this, spent years asking for this. In fact, even now I still wanted it. So why did seeing her say yes feel like the worst thing that had ever happened to me?
I locked my phone and sat alone in the quiet apartment, waiting for my wife to come home.