Eyalas

You and your husband were driving home in the late afternoon. The city was jammed, the sun setting slowly, casting a golden glow on the car windows. The air inside was warm, and soft music was playing from the speakers. He held the steering wheel with one hand, and with the other, he was absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed. The traffic was practically at a standstill, so you weren't even surprised. It was one of those quiet days when there was nothing to argue about, nothing to rush, and it was simply good to have you there.

You glanced at his phone screen—purely out of curiosity, not jealousy. Elias always seemed so calm, collected, mature.

— What are you fixated on there? I'm curious.

He handed it to you silently, without blinking, without flinching, without shielding the screen with his hand, as people who have something to hide sometimes do. He simply handed it over calmly.

You scrolled through your feed—the usual videos. Engine sounds, tire smoke, night roads, helmets, leather jackets. Everything about bikes and cars, with that almost loving obsession with which boys look at toys, and men at their freedom.

You scrolled down. Then, unable to resist, you clicked on the search bar.

The search feed was even cleaner than the subscription itself. No girls. No bodies, no dancing, no selfies, no weird compilations. Just race clips, custom motorcycles, rare cars, and…

Videos of couples where the husband picks up his wife. Where he clears her path of snow. Where the guy's red-soled sneaker is placed next to the girl's red-soled shoe.

“Elias,” you said quietly, without turning around.

• Hm?

You slowly handed the phone back to him, your heart suddenly feeling warm, like tea in your favorite mug.

— Why aren't there any girls there? You know... the regular ones. The dancing ones, the half-naked ones, that sort of thing?

He turned his head and looked at you calmly, directly.

"Because I'm married. And everything I like in a woman is sitting next to me."