Adultery My Friend Wants My Mother

[Lousy1995]

Chapter 13: The Distance Between

The morning after, Madhu stood before the bathroom mirror, the fluorescent light harsh against her skin. She tilted her head, examining the mark on her neck—not the dark bruise she had feared, but a reddish discoloration, faint but visible, the size of a thumbprint. She touched it gently, wincing not from pain but from the memory of how it had formed: Gautham's mouth against her throat, sucking hard enough to leave evidence, while she had arched into him, too lost in sensation to protest.

She found her heaviest foundation, the one she kept for special occasions, and dabbed it over the mark, blending it carefully into her skin. The coverage was imperfect; if someone looked closely, they would see the slight swelling, the discoloration beneath the makeup. She wrapped her saree pallu higher than usual, dbanging it across her neck and pinning it securely with a safety brooch. It looked formal, perhaps overly so for a day at home, but it would have to do.

Rajesh was in the kitchen when she emerged, boiling water for his morning tea. He looked up as she entered, his eyes scanning her face with a faint concern that had become familiar over the past week.

"You are up early," he said. "Could not sleep?"

"I have work," she said, moving past him to check the milk on the stove. "A deadline. I need to finish a batch by noon."

He nodded, accepting her explanation as he always did, though his gaze lingered on the pallu wrapped high around her neck. "It is hot today. Even with the rain. You will be uncomfortable with that wrapped so tight."

"I am cold," she lied, the words feeling thick in her throat. "The fever. From yesterday."

He accepted this, touching her forehead with the back of his hand, his fingers rough and warm. "You do not feel warm. But rest if you need to. The work will wait."

"The work will not wait," she said, sharper than she intended. "The company has deadlines."

He withdrew his hand, a slight hurt flickering across his face at her tone. "Of course. I only meant... take care of yourself."

She softened, touching his arm briefly, the guilt sharp and immediate. "I will. I am sorry. Just... stressed."

Vinay entered the kitchen then, his bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes avoiding both of them as he went to the counter for water. Madhu watched him, her heart constricting. He looked rested, she noticed—his skin clear, his movements fluid and unburdened. The tension that had knotted his shoulders for weeks seemed to have dissolved, replaced by a calm indifference that was somehow worse than anger.

"Vinay," she said, her voice tentative. "Do you want breakfast? I can make dosas quickly."

"No," he said, not looking at her as he filled his bottle. "I have to go. Early lecture."

He drank his water, rinsed the glass, and moved toward the door. Madhu stepped into his path, her hand reaching out instinctively to touch his shoulder, to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

"Vinay," she said softly. "Are you... are you okay?"

He stopped, his body rigid under her touch. For a moment, she thought he would pull away, but he simply stood there, looking at the door, his profile impassive.

"I am fine, Amma," he said, his voice neutral, polite, and distant. "I am just busy. The CAT exam is coming. I need to focus."

"I know," she said, her fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder. "But... we have not talked. In days. You come home, you go to your room. I feel like... like I do not see you anymore."

He turned to look at her then, his eyes meeting hers with a directness that made her breath catch. He saw her, she realized. He saw the makeup covering the mark on her neck. He saw the pallu pulled too high. He saw everything, and he chose to say nothing.

"You see me every day," he said quietly. "I am right here. I am just... busy. That is all."

He moved past her, out the door, and she heard his footsteps descending the stairs, steady and unhurried. He did not slam the door. He did not shout. He simply left, and the silence he left behind was heavier than any argument.

Rajesh touched her shoulder. "He is growing up," he said, misunderstanding her distress. "Boys become distant at this age. It is normal. Do not take it personally."

Madhu nodded, unable to speak, her hand still raised where Vinay's shoulder had been. She wanted to cry, to scream, to run after her son and beg his forgiveness for what she had become. Instead, she turned to the stove and began preparing breakfast, her movements mechanical, her mind already drifting to her phone, to the messages that might be waiting, to the man who wanted her in ways her son could never understand.

The workday began with good intentions. Madhu sat at her laptop, the Virtual Desktop Interface loading slowly, and pulled up the data entry batch she had failed to complete yesterday. Forty-seven customer records remained, each requiring manual verification and input. She adjusted her glasses, positioned her fingers over the keyboard, and began to type.

She made her first error within ten minutes.

It was a simple transposition—Mr. Ranganathan's address in Velachery, 4th Cross Street entered as 5th Cross Street. She caught it during her review, corrected it, and continued. But the mistake unsettled her. She never made errors like that. Her accuracy was her pride, the reason the company kept her despite her age and lack of formal qualifications.

She forced herself to concentrate, typing more slowly, checking each entry twice. But her eyes kept drifting to her phone, lying face-down beside the laptop. She had put it there deliberately, to avoid temptation, but its presence was magnetic. Was he awake yet? Would he message? Should she message him first?

At eleven o'clock, she gave in and checked the phone. No messages. The screen was blank, innocent, and she felt a ridiculous disappointment that made her angry with herself. She was a forty-two-year-old woman, not a collegegirl waiting for a boy to call. She had work to do. Responsibilities.

She turned the phone face-down again and returned to her work. She completed twelve records, then found herself staring out the window, watching a crow perch on the opposite building's ledge, preening its feathers. She had lost five minutes. She shook her head, focused, and completed three more records.

Her phone buzzed.

She grabbed it before she could stop herself, her heart racing. It was not Gautham. It was her supervisor, Mrs. Nair, from the company.

*Madhu, please review the last batch you submitted. There were three errors in the first twenty entries. Please be more careful. Quality standards must be maintained.*

Madhu stared at the message, her face burning. Errors? Three in twenty? That was unacceptable. That was the kind of sloppy work that got people fired. She typed back quickly, her fingers shaking.

*I am sorry, Mrs. Nair. I will review and resubmit. It will not happen again.*

*See that it doesn't,* came the reply. *We are monitoring productivity closely.*

Madhu set the phone down, her hands trembling. She was slipping. She was making mistakes. The affair was bleeding into her work, contaminating the one part of her life that had remained solid and respectable. She needed to focus. She needed to finish this batch and submit it perfectly, without errors, to prove that she was still competent, still reliable, still Madhu.

She worked until one o'clock, skipping lunch, her eyes burning from the screen. She completed the batch, reviewed it three times, and submitted it. Then she leaned back in her chair, her neck aching, her stomach empty, and felt the exhaustion settle over her like a heavy blanket.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was him.

*Good afternoon. Working hard?*

She stared at the message, her exhaustion suddenly lifting, replaced by a warm, guilty pleasure. She should not reply. She should eat lunch. She should rest.

*Yes,* she typed back. *Busy morning. Made some mistakes. Had to correct them.*

*You work too hard,* he replied. *You need a break. Have you eaten?*

*No,* she admitted. *Not yet.*

*Go eat,* he commanded, but the command was gentle, caring. *I do not want you getting sick. I need you healthy.*

*Need me?* she typed, then immediately regretted the vulnerability of the question.

*Yes,* he replied immediately. *I need you. Is that wrong to say?*

She stared at the screen, her heart pounding. She should not encourage this. She should not let him need her, or let herself need him. But the words warmed her, filled the hollow space that Vinay's absence had left inside her.

*It is not wrong,* she typed carefully. *But it is... complicated.*

*Everything with you is complicated,* he replied, and she could almost hear his smile. *That is why I cannot stop thinking about you.*

They messaged for twenty minutes, the conversation light, flirtatious but not explicit. He asked about her saree—she told him it was blue, that she had worn it because it was comfortable. He asked if she was alone—she confirmed that Rajesh was at work, Vinay at college. He asked if she missed him.

She hesitated over that question, her thumb hovering. She did miss him. She missed his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world. But admitting it felt like a betrayal too far, like crossing a line she could not uncross.

*I am busy,* she typed instead, avoiding the question. *I should eat now.*

*Coward,* he replied, but there was affection in it. *Fine. Eat. But send me a picture first. I want to see what you look like today.*

Madhu froze. A picture? Of herself? Now? She looked at her reflection in the darkened laptop screen—hair pulled back messily, no makeup except the foundation covering the mark, eyes tired from the computer. She was not beautiful. She was not presentable.

*I look terrible,* she typed. *Tired. Not now.*

*I do not care,* he insisted. *I want to see you. Any you. Just a selfie. Please.*

*Why?* she asked, genuinely confused. *What do you want it for?*

*To look at,* he replied simply. *To see your face. To feel like you are here with me. Is that strange?*

It was strange. It was also flattering, and dangerous, and intimate in a way that felt more exposing than sex. A picture could be saved. It could be found. It was evidence.

*It is risky,* she typed. *What if someone sees?*

*Delete it after you send,* he suggested. *Or send it through WhatsApp. It is encrypted. Safer.*

*I do not know...*

*Just one,* he pressed. *A simple selfie. You do not even have to smile. I just want to see you.*

Madhu stood up and walked to the window, her heart racing. She should refuse. She should tell him no, that this was too much, that she was not comfortable. But she wanted to please him. She wanted to see his reaction. She wanted to feel beautiful, even if she looked terrible.

She positioned herself in the light from the window, held the phone at arm's length, and took a photo. She looked tired, she realized, but the light was kind, softening the lines around her eyes. She sent it before she could change her mind, then immediately deleted it from her gallery, her face burning.

*Beautiful,* he replied instantly. *Tired, yes. But beautiful. You have the most expressive eyes. Even when you are exhausted, they shine.*

*You are lying,* she typed, but she was smiling.

*Never to you,* he replied. *Only the truth. Now eat. I will message you tonight.*

She put the phone down and went to the kitchen, her heart lighter than it had been in days. She made herself a simple lunch—rice and the previous night's sambar—and ate standing at the counter, checking her phone between bites to see if he had messaged again. He had not. He was respecting her need to eat, to work, to live her life. But the knowledge that he was there, that he was thinking of her, that he had her picture on his phone, made the food taste better, the air feel lighter.

The afternoon passed in a blur of household chores and more data entry. She started a new batch, working more carefully now, determined not to make errors. But her concentration was fractured. She kept thinking of the picture she had sent, wondering what he was doing with it, if he was looking at it, if he would ask for more.

At five o'clock, Rajesh called to say he would be late—another factory emergency, another evening alone. Madhu felt a complicated mix of relief and guilt. She should be disappointed. She should miss him. Instead, she felt only the opening of space, the freedom to be alone with her thoughts and her phone.

Vinay came home at six, later than usual. He nodded at her as he entered, his expression neutral.

"Did you eat?" she asked, standing up from her laptop.

"At the canteen," he said. "With friends."

"Friends?" she asked, trying to sound interested, trying to be the mother she used to be. "Which friends?"

"Just... friends," he said, avoiding her eyes. "From the study group. I have a lot of work. I will be in my room."

"Vinay," she said, stepping toward him. "Can we talk? Just for a minute?"

He stopped, his hand on his bedroom door, his back to her. "About what, Amma?"

"About... about anything. About your day. About your studies. I feel like... like we do not talk anymore. Like I do not know what is happening in your life."

He turned to look at her, his face carefully blank. "Nothing is happening. I am studying. That is all. I am focusing on my future. Is that not what you wanted?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then let me focus," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Please. I need to concentrate. The exam is in three months. I cannot afford distractions."

He went into his room and closed the door. Madhu stood in the living room, staring at the closed door, her heart aching. He was right, of course. He needed to focus. But his words—*distractions*—felt pointed, intentional. Was she a distraction now? An obstacle to his future?

She returned to her work, but the motivation had drained away. She stared at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring before her eyes. She checked her phone. No messages from Gautham. She checked WhatsApp again. Still nothing.

At eight o'clock, she gave up on work. She had completed only half the batch she had intended to finish. She would have to work late tonight, or wake early tomorrow, to catch up. The thought exhausted her.

She made herself tea and sat in the living room, the television playing a serial she was not watching. Her phone buzzed.

*Are you alone?* Gautham asked.

*Yes,* she replied. *Rajesh is at work. Vinay is in his room studying.*

*Can you talk?*

*Not on the phone,* she typed back quickly. *He might hear.*

*WhatsApp call? Through the app? It is quieter.*

Madhu hesitated. A call? Now? With Vinay in the next room?

*I do not know...*

*Just for five minutes,* he pleaded. *I want to hear your voice. I miss you.*

She should say no. She should tell him to wait until tomorrow, until she was truly alone. But she was lonely. She was hungry for connection, for someone to talk to who saw her as more than a mother, more than a wife, more than a worker.

*Okay,* she typed. *But quietly.*

She accepted his WhatsApp call, pressing the phone close to her ear, her heart hammering. "Hello?" she whispered.

"Hi," he said, his voice warm and intimate in her ear. "How was your day?"

"Long," she whispered, moving to the kitchen for privacy, though the walls were thin. "Difficult. I made mistakes at work. Vinay... he is avoiding me."

"He is processing," Gautham said gently. "Give him time. He will come back to you."

"I do not think he will," Madhu said, her voice cracking slightly. "I think I have lost him. The way he looks at me... like I am a stranger. Like he does not know me anymore."

"He knows you," Gautham said. "He just does not understand you yet. But he will. Or he will accept what he cannot understand. You are his mother. That bond does not break easily."

"It feels broken," Madhu admitted, tears pricking her eyes. "It feels like I have broken everything."

"Not everything," Gautham said softly. "You have me. I am still here. I am not broken."

"You are the problem," she whispered, but there was no anger in it, only truth. "You are why everything is breaking."

"Or I am the solution," he countered. "Maybe everything was already broken, and I am just showing you the cracks. Maybe I am the only one who sees you clearly."

They talked for fifteen minutes, their voices low and intimate. He told her about his day—a difficult client, a property deal that fell through, his frustration with his uncle's business methods. She listened, offering advice, feeling useful, feeling needed. When he asked about her work, she confessed her errors, her fear of losing the job.

"You will not lose it," he assured her. "You are too good. Everyone makes mistakes. Do not be so hard on yourself."

"I have to be hard," she said. "It is the only way I know."

"Let me be hard for you," he suggested. "Let me take some of the weight. Tell me what you need to finish tonight. I will help you plan. I will keep you company while you work."

"You cannot help with data entry," she said, smiling despite herself.

"No, but I can keep you awake. I can message you. Keep you company. Make sure you do not fall asleep at the laptop."

"That is... that is kind," she said, surprised.

"I am kind," he said. "To you. Only to you."

They ended the call, and true to his word, he began messaging her regularly as she returned to her work. Not constantly—he knew she needed to concentrate—but every twenty minutes, a check-in, a joke, a compliment, a question. He kept her awake, kept her focused, kept her company in the silent apartment while Vinay studied behind his closed door and Rajesh worked at the factory.

She worked until midnight, finishing the batch she had abandoned earlier. Her eyes were burning, her back aching, but she had completed it without errors. She submitted it and leaned back, exhausted but satisfied.

*Done?* he messaged immediately, as if he had been waiting.

*Done,* she replied. *Thank you. For keeping me company.*

*Anytime,* he said. *I will always be here when you need me. Now sleep. You have earned it.*

*Gautham,* she typed, hesitating. *Why are you doing this? Being so... so patient? So kind?*

*Because I love you,* he replied simply. *And because I am waiting for you to believe me.*

She stared at the message, her heart hammering. Love. He had said it before, but each time it hit her with fresh force. He loved her. This young, beautiful, flawed man loved her. It was impossible. It was wrong. It was the most seductive thing she had ever heard.

*I cannot say that back,* she typed honestly. *I do not know what I feel. It is too confused. Too messy.*

*I know,* he replied. *You do not have to say it. Just let me say it. Let me love you, even if you cannot love me yet. Goodnight, Madhu. Dream of me.*

She put the phone down and went to bed, her body exhausted, her mind racing. Rajesh came home at twelve-thirty, undressing quietly in the darkness, his body tired and smelling of machine oil. He kissed her forehead as he climbed into bed, murmuring an apology for being late. She murmured back that it was okay, that she understood, that she loved him.

The words felt hollow in her mouth, automatic, practiced. She lay awake long after he fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Gautham's messages, his voice in her ear, his patience and his persistence.

The next morning, she woke to find a message waiting from him, sent at six in the morning.

*Good morning. Wear something red today. For me.*

She stared at the message, her sleep-fogged mind struggling to process it. Wear something red? Why? It was a strange request, intimate and controlling in a way that made her uncomfortable. She had planned to wear a simple blue cotton saree, practical for working at home. She did not own much red—just one silk saree for festivals, too fancy for daily wear, and a red blouse that she rarely used.

*Why red?* she typed back.

*Because it is my favorite color,* he replied immediately, as if he had been waiting. *Because you will look beautiful in it. Because every time you see yourself in the mirror, you will think of me.*

*That is... strange,* she typed. *I do not usually wear red during the week.*

*Try it,* he pressed. *Just for one day. See how it feels. To wear something I chose for you. To know that you are carrying my preference against your skin all day.*

It was a small thing. Just a color. Just a request. But it felt significant, like the first step down a path she could not see the end of. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the screen. She should refuse. She should wear what she wanted, what was practical, what was appropriate for a middle-aged woman working from home.

But she found herself opening her wardrobe, pulling out the red blouse. It was silk, slightly worn, but still vibrant. She held it against her chest, looking in the mirror. It was too fancy for a Tuesday, too bold, too noticeable. Rajesh would comment. Vinay would look at her strangely.

She put it back. She wore the blue saree instead. But she did not message Gautham to tell him. She left his request unanswered, a small act of defiance, a small preservation of her autonomy.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

*You did not wear red,* he messaged at noon, his tone not angry, but disappointed. *I was looking forward to picturing you in it.*

*It was not practical,* she replied. *Too fancy. Rajesh would ask questions.*

*Next time?* he asked.

*Maybe,* she said, noncommittal.

*I will wait,* he replied. *I am patient. But Madhu... small steps. That is all I ask. Small steps toward me.*

She put the phone down and returned to her work, the red blouse still hanging in her wardrobe, a silent reminder of the choice she had made, and the choice she might make next time. She had not obeyed him. She had maintained her boundaries. But she had not refused him outright either. She had left the door open, just a crack, and she knew—she knew with a certainty that both frightened and excited her—that eventually, she would walk through it.

The it ended not with transformation, but with the tension of potential. Vinay was distant but present. Rajesh was oblivious but kind. Gautham was patient but persistent. And Madhu stood at the center, pulled in three directions, her work suffering, her heart confused, her will slowly, gradually, bending toward a future she could not yet imagine but was no longer certain she could resist.