The Unraveling Thread
The friction in the bedroom was a real entity, a whole new being that was laden with so much weight, far more than any argument, more stifling than any accusation. It was living between Chris and Amy for the past months, one dark, thick fog, breathing ice-cold without the head-start of inconvenience in their bond. Amy was now lying on her corner of the king-sized bed, stiff and frozen, her back to a man who once promised to be her forever. The gentle rhythm at which Chris breathed at her side had long been a comfort and a lullaby — now it aggravated her nerves, her heart painfully reminding her that what they had wasn't there anymore.
She longed for his touch, their bare hands grazing occasionally, the warmth of his arm surrounding her as they drift off to sleep, and desire: the desire in his eyes, the way he would watch her like she was the only woman on Earth. Nowadays, he merely glanced, meaninglessly. He never touched her. He stayed longer at work, citing intense marketing campaigns and client dinners, which really could not have dragged into a statute of five weeks. Amy, being a lawyer, would not be swayed or beguiled by such weak sophistries, passion on high alert thanks to her years of experience in contract-making and cross-examinations.
You see, the first kab is always so discreet, a quietly uttered whisper in the wee hours of the night. A faint, unfamiliar smell- never perfume but some sweet, flowery kind of floral fragrance- lingered on his shirt, oddly conflicting with his cologne. A sudden, cast-iron ownership of his phone: face down, always within a handsbreath’s reach. Late-night text messages were rushed and then quickly followed by apologies for overstepping the work chatter. Each incident on its own caused only a minor ruffle; woven together, though, they showed a full-fledged fumble.
The house was never so silent as that night. Chris had been late when he arrived, his breath thick with the scents of stale beer and an oh-so-sweet floral smell. He muttered a non-committal "Goodnight" as he did every other night and disappeared back to his side of the bed, leaving Amy to stare at the ceiling that night. She lay losing herself entirely to her levels of doubts mixed with dread. She laid still until she heard snoring, when she deduced that Chris was now in deep sleep. Very quietly, very steadily, she reached for his phone lying on the bedside table. Her hand shook a little with impending rage across the cool metal. She knew the password: the cruel date marking the day Chris tied the knot with her.
There were a bunch of notifications from various apps on the phone screen. Her heart was pounding as she entered the messages. She scrolled through work emails and group chats, looking at the names of people which she wasn't familiar with. And then, out of the blue, she saw it. A thread with a contact named: "Lydia." She sucked in a breath. Lydia … the name came up before during some passing remark while Chris was talking about a new accountant or something at his firm. Then it had not been suspicious, but now her cold gaze turned into one of gloom and despair.
She clicked on the chat. The first few messages were work pleasantries. And then, photo. Amy winced. She was looking at a flirty selfie; a woman she did not know was posing provocatively in lingerie. Her face was obscured, but the statement attached to the photo left no doubt. "Thinking of you, Chris."
Amy felt her eyes well up with tears, and that emotion was quickly replaced by molten fury. So she scrolled frenetically, flying along the air over the screen in morbid fascination. More pictures. More suggestive messages. Her husband, her Chris, sending pictures of an amorous nature from his end-the infidel. It made her feel like someone had just struck her in the gut. Primordial fear was now building a huge lump of rage and scream within her, but she swallowed it all down, taking in deep gasps.
Chris mumbled something in his sleep, cussing at the unfulfilled dream. Amy froze; her fingers lingered close to the phone, so she pressed the lock screen quickly and returned it to the nightstand without so much as an extended blink. Closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep, her body buried under an onslaught of controlled fury. He mustn't know just then; she needed definite and otherwise incontrovertible evidence. The pictures would damn him, no doubt, but she wanted more. She had to catch him with his pants down.
It was so terrifyingly easy. Nanny cams. Simple; they had joked and discussed the purchase, furtively when the whole baby-not-baby ship had been on hardcore sale. This was the first fire burning in her cold, icy veins. At the first glimmer of dawn casting through the blinds and onto the room, Amy knew what she would do: she would not confront him. Not yet. This would be a quiet gathering of items and evidence until the day when she felt most invulnerable to confront him. The dynamics had shifted in what could be called a psychological 'check,' giving Amy an almost terrifying sense of purpose for the first time in so many months. She had to get him. It wasn't just about catching him; clearly, Amy seemed to pride herself on collecting her own dignity, her power, and her right as a woman to revenge. But sweet revenge.
