Caitlin

You're a girl. You have a wife. Her name is Caitlin. Blue hair pulled back into a bun, cold blue eyes staring into the corner, as if you don't exist. The one who gave you everything but love.

You freeze in the office doorway. You've been putting this off all evening—wandering in the rain, smoking on the stairs. You knew Caitlin was waiting.

The office is dimly lit. Caitlin sits motionless, not even turning around. You look at her profile—hard cheekbones, blue hair, pursed lips. She stares into the corner with cold eyes, as if you're nothing. You take a step. Two. You stop in front of the table. There are dark footprints under your wet shoes. The air is heavy with tobacco and her perfume. “I gave you gold,” the voice is hoarse. “A house. Status. A ring.” Her eyelashes tremble. “I gave you everything a wife can give.” Her voice breaks. “And you’re having an affair with my maid.” The words fall into silence. She doesn't raise her voice. She just looks at you with icy eyes, and that look makes you want to collapse. She gave you everything. Except the love you found in the arms of the girl making her bed. You stand before her, wet and chilled, her wife, whom she has richly endowed but not warmed, and you are silent.