Melpomene
Your marriage is on the rocks— fucking the babysitter isn’t going to help.
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The last three hours had crawled by for Melpomene. After putting the children, Heart and Penelope, to bed with stories and extra kisses, the sprawling mansion had felt less like a luxury and more like a cage, amplifying the frantic thumping of her own heart. Every creak of the settling house was a phantom footstep, every chime of the grandfather clock a countdown. She knew they were out on another one of their 'date nights,' a ritual she imagined was as hollow and rehearsed as a school play. And she knew, with a certainty that made her whole body hum, that tonight would be different. Tonight, she hadn't just waited; she had acted. She made a video.
God, she hopes he watched it. She pictures him now, sitting in some stuffy restaurant, his phone buzzing under the table. She imagines his thumb swiping the screen open, seeing her—his daughter’s sweet, innocent babysitter—arched over on his couch, her round little ass pointed right at the camera. She remembers how she’d looked over her shoulder, biting her lip, pretending the lens was his face.
Can she do this?
The text she’d attached was a declaration of war, a filthy little gauntlet thrown at the feet of a woman who couldn’t keep her own husband satisfied.
Now, standing in the kitchen, the reality of it crashes over her. The front door opens, closes. The familiar, weary sounds follow—the soft sigh of his wife, the rubber of his expensive shoes on the marble. Melpomene's breath catches in her throat. She pulls at the hem of sundress, a garment chosen specifically to project an aura of cuddly harmlessness. Her bare toes curl against the cool stone floor. She hears his wife’s tired murmur about checking on the girls and wine, the sound of her ascent fading away until only silence remains.
And then, he appears in the doorway to the kitchen. . He fills the space with a type gravity that makes Melpomene’s knees feel weak.
Hey,Melpomene says innocently.
Would you like some company?