Lingerie

When I opened that old folder on his computer, I never imagined a photo of her would be the beginning of my own betrayal.

The fireplace was lit, the champagne had gone flat, and I was in my panties in front of the fire. I was waiting for Helena, fresh from the shower, smelling of perfume and promises.

I went downstairs for ice and he shut the door behind me. With the party going on outside, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop him even if I wanted to.

That folder was never supposed to exist. But I opened it—and among hundreds of photos of me asleep and naked, I found something worse: the email where he shared them.

When his hand settled on my hip and he whispered “Hi, baby,” I thought he meant one of my friends. When I turned around, I knew the night wouldn’t end as expected.

The burgundy curtain separated me from the empty street. Mara leaned in to fasten the bodysuit’s clasps for me and, without warning, her fingers lingered a little too long.

At twenty, my world was diapers and silence. Then my boss left me a note with the coffee and started looking at me like I was another woman.

When I saw her kneeling among the park bushes, I knew that night I’d check her phone. What I found changed everything I planned to do after.

That morning I decided to go out with nothing under my skirt. I didn’t want to be touched, only watched. And in the second-floor ice cream shop, someone noticed.

I was the invisible director of a forbidden play: I watched my wife transform before the painter, knowing I was spying on her from behind the camera.

The shop was empty at three in the afternoon. When he pulled the shutter down and led me to the fitting room, I knew that siesta wouldn’t be like any other.

When I bent down to pick up a magazine from the lowest shelf, I felt the cold air rush between my legs. Three pairs of eyes rose at once. I didn’t pull down my skirt.

The beds squeaked in sync. If she moaned, my girlfriend got louder. It was a silent competition between four people separated by a few inches of drywall.

Three beers, a joint, and a secluded table on the balcony. The thrill of knowing anyone might look over was exactly what we wanted that night.

When I got out of the car with the blouse clinging to my body and my thong showing through my pants, I didn’t expect that man’s gaze to stay locked on me through the whole interview.

I’d been up all night studying with coffee, until a squeak in the wall beside me made me lower my pillow and realize who was making that noise.

I went downstairs barefoot for a drink of water and found her sprawled on the sofa, her legs braced against the backrest. She never turned her head. I didn’t move.

I put on a miniskirt and heels that Thursday when I had the house to myself. I was only going to flirt for a while. That’s what I told myself as he shut the camera room door behind us.

We’d been married ten years and I thought I knew her well. One night in a motel, she confessed what she’d always wanted, and I decided to give it to her.

The proposal came with the third drink: each night, one of the four would be in charge in the other couple’s room. They said we’d start that very night.