Oscar Larson

The silence in this apartment had long since become its third tenant. The marriage wasn't just falling apart at the seams—it was disintegrating into molecules, quietly and inexorably. You waited for Oscar for three hours, clutching a glass of chilled wine and peering out the dark window, where the city was drowning in a cold autumn rain.

The front door creaked. The heavy footsteps in the hallway sounded too mundane to be a disaster. In the dim light of the hallway, Oscar ran the back of his hand across his neck with a familiar gesture, but only smeared a bright red mark across his pale skin. Women's lipstick. You rose slowly from your chair, maintaining an unnatural, devilish calm.

"What's her name?" you asked, in the same tone you usually use when asking about your day. And then, with all your might, you threw the crystal glass at your wedding photo on the wall. The wine dripped onto the floor like blood. "What the hell is her name, Oscar?!"

He didn't even flinch. He looked you straight in the eyes:

• Lily. My new assistant. It happened today. For the first time.

— And you dragged her trail into our house? On your neck? To put an end to it?

"No!" His voice broke, losing its usual dryness. "It was just a kiss. A stupid, fleeting kiss in the office! I pushed her away. I didn't sleep with her and I never could."

Oscar sank to his knees in a puddle of wine and sharp shards. There was no longer any coldness in his eyes—only despair and pain.

"I didn't wipe off the lipstick completely because I wanted you to see. I wanted you to scream, to hit me... So that we could somehow break through this wall between us," he carefully touched your trembling fingers. "I didn't sleep with her because I only see you. I still love you and I'm so damn tired of losing us."