FORBIDDEN FRUIT

• two •

Atticus

I ghosted my wife.

.

After the successful session with our marriage counsellor, I ghosted my wife.

A lot of married couples wouldn't exactly call that session successful. In fact, they would call it unsuccessful. I know that my wife would call it unsuccessful and painful. But to me, it was successful and strangely liberating.

It was the moment I realised that our marriage would never work. It was never meant to work. It never stood a chance. No matter how many sessions we had with the marriage counsellor, the brutal truth was that there was nothing to save. It was like trying to give a pulse to a corpse. It was pointless. And I think the counsellor could see it too but hey! What's the point of telling a couple that their marriage is dead if that means no paycheck?

Greedy. That's what we've all become. Greedy.

We always want to take more and more and more. That's what our government does. That's what our insurance companies do. That's what our schools do. That's what my wife does.

She takes and takes and takes and takes. And I have nothing more to give. I have no more love to give. I have no more forgiveness to give. I have no more money to give. I have no more dìck to give. She's sucked me dry. And I have nothing more to give.

I walked out of that office earlier today, a small smile on my face.

My wife followed me outside. Offered me a ride back home. And she always does that after every session. She offers me a ride home. Then we get home. And she rides me the second the engine stops. The minute we finish and the high of the adrenaline is dead, the fights come to life. And she starts bickering over something I said at the session. And I start pulling up my pants, ready to leave the car. And she starts touching me. And before you know it, her tongue is in my mouth. And the cycle continues.

But I have stopped the cycle.

Today, I stopped the cycle.

I rejected the ride back home. She was confused, mostly disappointed. I was relieved, mostly delighted. She walked to her car.

I walked to the stage with a giant smile on my face and stopped the train.

My train to freedom.

•••

Six hours.

That's how long it took to get here.

Six fùcking hours. But it almost feels like six minutes. I enjoyed the ride to this town. A ride to freedom. I smiled the entire way here. The old woman sitting next to me kept throwing strange looks at me. She probably thought I was mental. But I didn't give a single fùck. I still kept smiling.

And maybe I am mental. I realised that I didn't want to be with my wife at the office of the marriage counsellor. That's where the dead flowers of marriage should blossom but I buried them in that office. I ghosted my wife. I took a train to start a new life far away from everyone and everything I knew. That's exactly what a mental person would do.

When I set foot back in this town, I went straight to the club.

I wanted to drink. And I wanted to drink a lot. For two years, I didn't put a single drop of liquor in my mouth. My wife is a recovering addict. Me drinking meant her getting tempted to drink. And I didn't want to tempt her into the hellhole of addiction. So I stopped drinking.

But nothing is stopping me now. I'm a free man. And a free man goes to the club and gets drink and dances with women and maybe gets some sèxy woman and they have a one night stand.

Never had a one night stand before. They are just not my thing. Meeting someone and getting naked for them on the same day doesn't sound romantic. It sounds reckless. And sèx shouldn't be reckless. It should be romantic. It should be sensual. It should be intimate. How the fùck can you be intimate with a stranger?

I set foot in the club.

It's obnoxiously loud. The crowd is wild. It smells like sweat and cheap liquor. It was a mistake coming here. This is not my crowd. And this is definitely not my place.

I turn around to leave when I spot her.

She has the most beautiful brown eyes. That's my first thought. She has the most beautiful brown eyes.

I get a sudden strong urge to see more of those eyes. I want to watch those eyes like a hawk. I want to see what those eyes look like when they are happy. Right now, they are obviously sad but still so beautiful. If they can look so beautiful with so much sadness, how they fùck do they look when they are blissful?

Guess there's only one way to find out.

I start walking towards her. She stands up from the stool. She's ready to leave. I walk fast.

Bad timing. Bad timing. Bad timing.

She turns around and bumps into me.

Best timing. Best timing. Best timing.

“Hello, Beautiful.”

I wish I could call her Beautiful Eyes but I don't want her to think I'm some creep. So, I stick to beautiful. Because she's indeed beautiful.

She's about to stumble but I'm quick to catch her. My hands are strong and firm on her waist. That's because my knees are weak as my eyes sink into her beautiful brown eyes. It's impossible to stand steady. She makes me shiver. Her eyes make me shiver.

“You have the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen.”

My heart stops.

“That's probably the liquor talking.” I'm nervous. “But thanks.”

I try to play it cool but my heart just threw a drum festival.

“You have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard.” She adds. “Be a singer.”

She makes my heart stop again.

“Funny.” I smirk. “I work with singers.”

My hands are still wrapped firmly around her waist. If I let her go, I might stumble on the floor. We are staring at each other. And it's bad for my stamina. And this moment should be awkward. But strangely, it's not awkward. It's far from awkward. It's electric. It's magnetic. It's magic.

She bursts into tears.

She falls on the seat and drops her bag on the counter. She drops her face in her hands and sobs uncontrollably.

I think of my wife. As I watch her cry, I think of my wife. All the times I made her cry. All the times I broke her heart. And maybe, I'm a fùcking onion like my wife says. All I do is make people cry. To be honest, I never felt bad about making her cry. I know that sounds cruel. But when you chop an onion into pieces, why are you surprised when tears spill down your eyes? But this woman has not chopped my heart into pieces. In fact, she has brought it to life. She has given it a pulse. I mean, she's made it stop a couple of times. But she's also thrown a drum festival with those beautiful brown eyes. And now I'm making her cry.

“Are you okay?” I ask in concern, my hand touching her cheek softly.

“I'm not okay.”

She beats away her tears and our eyes meet.

“I want you to fùck me.” She repeats. “Take me to your room. Take off my dress. And fùck me on the bed. And fùck me in the shower. And fùck me in the kitchen. And fùck me on the floor. And fùck me in every corner of your house. Fùck me like there's no tomorrow.”

My heart stops.

“A one night stand.” She says. “That's all I'm asking for.”

My heart stops again.

“After tonight, we'll go back to being strangers who were drunk and had a dumb drunk one night stand. You'll go back to your normal life. And I'll go back to my normal life. And we'll never ever see each other again.”

I know I said I don't do one night stands. But I still stand by that. I don't do one night stands with strangers. She's not a stranger. I know I met her today but it feels like I've known her forever. And it's the strangest feeling.

Any sane guy would turn down the offer instantly. All sorts of questions would be roaming through his mind. What if this is a death trap? What if she's a sèx trafficker? What if she's a serial killer? Those are the exact same questions running through my head. But I can't turn it down. And that's because I'm not sane. The old woman in the train could see it. My marriage counsellor could see it. My wife could see it. My father could see it. My brother could see it. I've always seen it.

I'm mental.

And I think she's just as mental as I am.

I smile a wicked grin and stretch my hand to hers.

“Deal.”

••••