Peeping

“Here we can do whatever we want. Nobody knows us, nobody judges us.” She said it with a glass in her hand, and I knew summer was going to change everything.

When I texted her “do your thing,” she knew exactly what to do with the stranger who would knock on the door at six-thirty that evening.

I woke thirsty that night and found the door ajar. What I saw across the hallway left me frozen, afraid even to breathe.

They thought the cove was empty. I stayed behind the rock, holding my breath, watching her move on top of him as the sky turned orange.

“It’s only a handjob,” he promised her. But her husband was coming home that very night and the two of them were still tangled in the sheets, unable and unwilling to stop.

Marina stretched her hand toward him from the sofa, palm open, an invitation that said nothing and everything. Tomás set down the glass and rose from the armchair.

I put the proof back where I’d found it, washed my hands, and went down to the kitchen as if I knew nothing. That night, the dirtiest game of our marriage began.

I’d never done it with anyone. And the first person who entered me wasn’t my boyfriend, but his father, one afternoon when the house was empty and I couldn’t say no.