in English
Indulgence
Coffee. Disgusting. Bitter in that empty, over-roasted way that leaves no flavor behind. Either the beans were burnt to death or the whole breakfast had simply failed to be born. The entire morning felt crumpled, like a shirt pulled from the bottom of a suitcase.
And there he was—calm, unreadable—standing by the window, thoughtfully drinking that swill from the mug she had given him ten years ago. It should have been replaced long ago, but he had grown attached to it as if it were the Holy Grail.
A week since she returned from the resort. A full week, and they hadn’t gone anywhere together. Had barely exchanged a dozen sentences that reached beyond domestic logistics. They used to talk past midnight about everything and nothing. Strictly speaking, she did most of the talking; he preferred to listen—but he always listened closely, never losing the thread. And now…
Even in bed—one quick fuck “to welcome you home,” and that was it.
A very strange week.
“What’s wrong? Is something off? I know breakfast turned out shitty—let me fix it.”
She came up behind him, slipping her arms around him, and whispered:
“Or would you prefer… another form of compensation?”
He stepped easily out of her embrace and sat down.
“No, thank you. I’m full. Everything’s fine.”
He set the nearly untouched cup down too sharply. A drop leapt over the rim and slid lazily down the porcelain. He placed a napkin beneath it. His fingers trembled—barely, but unmistakably.
There was no doubt: inside her man something was boiling. Carefully contained, but not trivial.
“Did something happen?”
“Possibly.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet. Listen—we’re adults. You were gone for two weeks. Not visiting your mother. Not at some cottage. Another country. And it isn’t my fault I wasn’t there. You know that perfectly well. Your stories wouldn’t fill a children’s book. Either you’ve developed memory lapses, or you’ve joined some society of tourist schismatics.”
“I told you everything. I sent photos every day. And you know descriptive enthusiasm usually hits me in bed… and lately we’ve only been sleeping.”
His gaze slid over her body—slow, sharp—then to the window. It lingered there for a second before returning, holding something unreadable. Mockery? Curiosity?
He took her hand and pulled her onto his lap.
“Do you know what we’re going to do now? We’re going to the Confessional.”
Thank God, she thought. At least something is happening. No normal man can sit on himself for a week. Though this isn’t the bedroom… and it rarely ends predictably.
“Let’s go then,” she replied lightly, though her voice rasped faintly at the end, as if her throat had suddenly dried.