Temptation Megan Riggey Yet another morning waking up to spend the whole day looking after him. You roll over, grimacing at his snoring face with the wrinkled forehead and upturned top lip that will soon be grunting at you to make breakfast. Long gone are the days after you got married when he’d get up earlier to spontaneously bring you breakfast in bed. But now, the duvet is wrinkled, stretching over the large gut that shows no signs of the washboard abs that used to give you butterflies whenever you caught a glimpse of them. His dishevelled hair spreads across the pillow like an unruly collection of black wires that blend in with his five o’clock shadow that has been neglected for countless days. You start to cry-not an over the top, sobbing episode, just evidence of years’ worth of misery slowly trickling down your puffy face. There isn’t even anything particular to cry about. Perhaps you’re just bored, every day being the same old thing. You consider resting your head in the crook of his neck like you used to, the warm place that used to make you feel so safe but the droplets of sweat collecting between the subtle folds of the skin repulse you. Your scrutinising eyes and self-pity are distracted by your phone lighting up on the bedside table, a text from an unknown number. Hesitantly, you swipe right to unlock your phone and read it:
Miss Schedar, I don’t need you to travel far. I assume you need no explanation of who this is. Please meet me beside the lake in Jakson’s Park in precisely an hour so that our relationship can further flower. Strange, must be a wrong number, you think. You mentally note the last three digits of the number, 091, then hastily delete the text just in case your husband sees it and thinks that something untoward is going on; he can be so possessive, especially with someone sending texts like that. You lay for a while, thinking about how much you’d love for someone to put so much effort into anything for you, even if it was just a text with a slightly forced rhyme in it. Now you’re awake, you think that you may as well get up. You drag yourself out of bed one leg at a time, throwing the rest of the covers over his body, trying not to wince at the sight of him. You wander downstairs, relishing the peacefulness after another disturbed night of his incessant snoring and go into the kitchen, pulling open the drawer below
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