It had all started quite innocently—or so the woman told herself. Occasional little touches—nothing to worry about. A hug that lasted a little too long when she came home from class. A hand wandering while they watched TV; his arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers “accidentally—or on purpose”—sliding toward places they perhaps shouldn’t have gone.
She hadn’t thought there was… anything strange about it. In fact, at first she’d thought it was quite sweet. It felt as if she’d regained a part of her son. It was a reward for those lonely years she’d spent raising him mostly on her own. And when things got a little… out of hand—well, men are men, after all. They get curious. It doesn’t mean anything.
However… after all those years of neglect, every touch felt a little… more special. The trace of that contact lingered on her skin like a brand. In the quiet, empty house her husband left behind every morning, she found herself reliving that moment, that simple warmth, that shocking, forbidden attention, over and over again. She’d catch her reflection in the microwave door, see the flush on her cheeks, and quickly look away.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hide it… maybe she should have tried harder, but she could tell her husband knew. He knew that this touch affected her, that she… liked it, even desired it… and he was growing bolder by the day. It was a little, forbidden game she was playing with him. A little game that made her grin, while he blushed and squirmed in his chair; as she tried to remember how she should behave—how she should act like a mother—she tried not to think of the thousands of reasons why all of this was so wrong.
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