The Unfinished Manuscript

The Affair

As Carlos Santos looked out of the window at the myriad of skyscrapers, a pool of shame formed in the lower region of his stomach.

What would Frank think, if he knew the truth? Would he ever be able to come clean? To be forthright about the crimes he had committed day after day, month after month, year after f*****g year, for the duration of their marriage?

The thought haunted him as he pulled on his boxers, staring at Alexandra's naked body and wondering if his ongoing infidelity had truly been worth it.

He couldn't decide.

He loved Frank very much or, at least, he'd convinced himself that he did, but, even after all these years, it was clear that the man was, well, self-obsessed. He was undoubtedly a brilliant artist, albeit a complicated, angst-filled, and controversial one. He was rather uptight in many cases, and, for the two decades the two of them had been married, it was plain to see that the great Frank Salisbury had always been for more involved with his work then he ever had been with Carlos Santos.

The author's work ethic was, quite frankly, unnerving, and Carlos frequently worried that it may be unhealthy: The man did spend ten hours each day locked in his office, after all, and rarely came out it, unless he was craving some Earl Grey. HIs tea-making procedure lasted all of five minutes, before he promptly closed the door and isolated himself from the world once more.

Carlos rolled his eyes just thinking about it. He admired Alexandra McQueen, her head resting on a velvet pillowcase, her arms covering the back of her head as her golden locks cascaded, creating a magnificent contrast with the purple.

For as long as he'd known Alexandra, she'd always been a stomach sleeper. He wondered if sleep was the one place where she could fully be herself: bare-faced, happy, comfortable, and free.

Alexandra McQueen was always putting on a show for the world-a magnificent one at that—to the extent that Carlos Santos started to believe that perhpas the woman had mistakenly began putting on a show for herself, ad even for him, so eager to please that she'd forgotten who she was after the last flash of the ever-present camera captured her beauty and she strolled into her mansion, painfully alone with her own reflection.

Alexandra McQueen was a ghost of herself at present, but what a beautiful ghost she was.

Carlos thought to himself as he tiptoed out of the room to fetch coffee.

Perhaps that's why I like the woman so much. She is so eager to please, so quick to take my needs into consideration, even if that means she has to sacrifice her own.

He wondered to himself, as the clouds began to clear over Manhattan, whether that's why she'd remained in an unhappy marriage for so long, playing the tame, silent, pretty little housewife to Paul Newman when he knewe she was about to burst into a million tiny pieces, shattered on the floor like a broken wine glass after the celebration of its life.