“Why do you think I handed you four fucking ties, Tori? I obviously need one for tomorrow,” he snaps, eyes still glued to the television.
I don’t argue. I don’t ask which color. I’m too tired to hear him snap again. It’s late. I want to crawl into bed.
I retrieve the blue tie he was looking for earlier from the bag, walk it into our closet, and drape it over the pants hanging on the nearly empty rack he uses for tomorrow’s clothes.
I’m at my dresser in our closet, about to grab a set of unattractive matching flannel pajamas, when I see it—a satin, lace-trimmed nighty I bought for our anniversary a few years ago. Deep purple,beautiful against my skin. I only wore it once, and it stirs a memory I don’t ever want to lose.
Chase and I had been in a good place then. We’d gone to counseling for a while, and things were going well. We weren’t fighting as much; his words were mostly kind. On our anniversary, he actually brought home flowers. I walked out of our room wearing only that nighty, my hair falling in loose waves down my back.
That night was more than sex. We connected. We made love. There was passion, connection, love, mutual respect. He touched me with reverence, kissed me with tenderness. Told me how much he loved me, and I said it back—wholeheartedly. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, content. Happy, even. For a while.
Suddenly, I wonder.
God, this is stupid. What am I doing? I’ve already made up my mind. Made my choice. I’m leaving.
But what if?—
No. No, I can’t.
…Can I?
Fuck it.
I drop the flannel set back into the drawer and reach for the satin instead, the fabric slipping cool and traitorous through my fingers. Today’s clothes go into the hamper. The nightgown gets folded in half on the vanity like it might change its mind if I let go.
I close the bathroom door quietly and turn the lock—not that Chase is likely to peel himself away from the television—and twist the bathtub faucet on. A quick shave to smooth my legs. Lotion. A spritz of perfume. The small, almost pathetic rituals of someone still trying. Maybe I’ll comb through my hair, brush my teeth, pretend I’m not clawing at the frayed edge of something already gone.
He’s watching football. They have a name for this play, right? A Hail Mary. That’s what this is—one last, reckless throw into the end zone. My final gamble to see if there’s even a flicker left to save us before I pack my bags and walk out the door forever.
Once I’m done shaving, I smooth lotion over my legs until they shine, spritz perfume at my wrists and the hollow of my throat, run a comb through my hair until it falls just right. The woman in the mirror looks soft, inviting. Ready to be loved.
The woman in the mirror is really fucking confused about why she just put all this effort into someone who definitely does not want her.
Why am I doing this, again? Hope. I have to know. One last time. Hail Mary.
When I step out of the bathroom, Chase is already in bed, phone in hand. The blue glow illuminates his face. He doesn’t look up. His shirt and shorts are crumpled in a heap on the floor—because of course they are.
I pause in the doorway, satin brushing my thighs. Wait for him to notice. He doesn’t.
I cross the room and slip into my side of the bed, close enough that the scent of my perfume should reach him. “Hey,” I murmur, fingertips grazing his arm like an invitation.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps scrolling, the blue light from his phone washing over his face, making him look miles away.
“Chase?” My voice is quieter this time, because I already know.
He finally looks. No smile. No warmth. Just a bland acknowledgment that I’m here, breathing in the same room.
I lean in anyway, pressing my mouth to his shoulder, my hand sliding along his side, trying to coax something familiar from him. A spark. A memory. Anything. He exhales—impatient, not affected—and sets his phone on the nightstand before lying back, waiting for me to take the lead.
I straddle him, hoping muscle memory will wake him up, pull him toward me. My lips trail up his jaw, my hand skimming his chest, but he gives me nothing—not a kiss, not a touch. Just stillness.
I grind down, searching for connection, but before I can ask if something’s wrong, his hand is in my hair, pushing me under thecovers. No words. No tenderness. Just a silent order: put my dick in your mouth.
It stings. But I go. Because maybe if I do this—if I give him what he wants—he’ll see me again, even if only for a second.
I take him into my mouth, slow at first, teasing the tip with my tongue, then swallowing him deep before pulling back with a hard suck. The rhythm is muscle memory for me. I work him until he’s fully hard, until I can pretend for just a second that this is foreplay, not a transaction.
I climb back up, guide him to my entrance, and sink down, satin pooling at my waist. I want him to grip my hips, to drag me closer, to touch me like I matter. But he just props his arms behind his head, his hips lifting every so often to meet mine halfway, like this is a chore he’s willing to finish but not invest in.
