As he thought back to what had happened, Peter felt a surge of guilt needling its way through his skin, but he attempted to stifle it as best he could. It was his fault, he knew that, there was no denying it. It was his fault, and his feeble self-deception was too tired to fight against it. It was his fault, and his supposed fragility was no longer a valid excuse. Any denial, any attempt at innocence would be unforgivable at this point. He ripped his own innocence out long ago, and let it become the batting ball in a soulless game of depravity — only to wear it as a tattered mask when it suited the situation, when it could protect him from blame: no, from himself. Yes, it was his fault. He knew that much too well. And all the averted gazes and fumbling words and wringing of hands would do nothing to distract him from the truth. The yelling was too loud to ignore; it was still ringing in his ears.

Yes, it was his fault. And with the reverberations of her voice in his ears, his hopes of avoidance were splattered across his mind, displaying his weakness, his cowardice. And the minuscule part of his mind that was still trying to convince himself not to believe it was huddled in the corner, his eyes like faucets, whimpering: staring at the mess he had made by disbelieving, the rotten sin on the walls of his mind dripping, dripping, dripping. And with each drop he realized that all of this, all that he was witnessing, was not due to an action — it was due to a reaction, like metal flinging towards a magnet, like the burst of a volcano after the slow, sly build-up. It was always set on arriving, it never changed its direction; it was a comet with a collision course, never wavering, always certain on its destination. It was only a matter of time. And here it was: an explosion, and he had dared to act surprised.

Yes, it was his fault. The desperation he had been pushing down, repressing, silencing for so long came crawling out of his mouth and begging, pleading — even yelling, defending. But it was a sneering little thing with no humanity left in it; it was just a natural creation of his own deeds and words, waiting for a moment to jump out and rattle him to the core, possess him into saying anything that would justify, rationalize, fix. But it was too late — some broken things don't like to be fixed. Eventually, blame becomes nothing more than a shell to hide under, to feel safe in. Blame all you want and you might just forget about the problem. But nothing was forgotten; no, everything was seared into his mind like a first-degree burn. And it was. He knew it was. It was his fault. It was all his fault. There was no doubt about it. It was his fault. It was his fault it was his fault it was his fault it was—

But dwelling on it wouldn’t help the situation. Fights happen all the time, and it was pointless to play the blame game. Fights happen all the time, and then they die down and disappear, because they’re talked through and resolved. Yes, they happen all the time, but they fade away, wither like the rot they are. They’re dealt with, thrown away and forgotten. They would talk through it later tonight, and this would also be forgotten. Yes, it would be forgotten. He was sure of it.

The late autumn rain was blurring his windshield, but he didn’t think much of it: the bar was only a few minutes away. Peter liked to call it his bar, going there practically every day after work. His wife considered him an alcoholic, but he completely disagreed. He believed it was only natural to desire a scotch after a long day of work. She hated the bar as well, thought it was a place of vice and debauchery. It was one of the reasons they were fighting that morning, but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting a drink that night.

Walking the few yards from the parking lot to the bar was quite frustrating because of the rain, and he was soaking wet as he entered. Heading toward his usual spot, he noticed a flash of blonde hair and turned around to see a beautiful woman leaving the bar with an arm wrapped around her waist: the man who looked familiar. But he didn’t think much of it, and went to sit down, ordering a scotch. After a few sips, he took out his phone, considering whether or not he should call Cassie. After a few moments of hesitation, he put his phone back in his pocket, deciding it was best not to call her from the bar; he didn’t want to intentionally aggravate her. After all, he loved her more than anyone else in the entire world, and he never wanted to hurt her — but he had no idea how hard marriage would be. There were too many days where he would think back to when they first met, and compare how he felt towards her back then to how he felt now: it was a foolish comparison, because he would always end up feeling as if their relationship had lost something essential in the years that they had been together.

Just as he finished his scotch and ordered another, a woman sat next to him. He gave her a quick glance, then doubled back in shock. It was Cassie, except she didn’t look like herself at all: she was wearing an elegant red cocktail dress, sparkling jewelry, and makeup. Peter couldn’t recall the last time he had seen her in makeup — much less wearing a gorgeous dress and luxurious jewelry. Her short black hair was in curls, and she was smiling a seductive smile at no one in particular. After staring at her in absolute silence, Peter finally spoke up.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart? What are you wearing?” he asked, still surprised by her presence.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, stranger,” she said, smirking.

Peter was baffled by the situation. It was all very strange to him, this was not like her at all.

“What are you up to, Cass?”

“How do you know my name?” she asked, still smirking.

“Umm… it’s Peter? Your husband?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” she said mysteriously, crinkling her nose when she said the word ‘mister’.

Slowly, he was picking up on what was going on. Maybe this was some kind of game that she wanted to try out — seducing with a stranger. It was a fantasy that Peter had mentioned before in passing, but he never thought Cassie would actually agree to go through with it.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, grinning widely, “why don’t we start over? I’m Peter.”

Cassie looked at him doubtfully for a second, then offered her hand for him to kiss, saying, “Cassandra, nice to meet you. Just know, I finish what I start.”

“Glad to hear that, so do I,” Peter replied, kissing her hand, practically giddy with excitement.

"Light me up, won't you?" she said, taking out a cigarette.

"Aren't you light enough?" he joked, taking out a lighter.

“So, what’s a man like you doing here?” she asked him, her voice twinkling.

“Waiting for some hot piece of ass like you to show up,” Peter goaded jokingly.

“Oh, how could you!” she scolded him.

“Excuse my frankness, I don't mean to be rude. It's just that I’m quite certain I’m looking at the most beautiful woman in this entire establishment.”

"Is that so?"

"I would never lie to a ravisher like you."

"I can be more than just beautiful, you know." She looked at him seductively, and said in a purring voice, "Do you want me to be sexy? Fresh? Different? I'll be whatever you want me to be."

"You know just what to say, don't you?" he said, grabbing her hand with his.

"Oh… oh dear," she said despondently, staring down at his hand and noticing the ring on his finger.

"Oh this? This is nothing," he muttered, taking the ring off.

“Liar,” she said, smirking again, and the alluring word danced its way into his heart.

“It’s true!” he proclaimed righteously.

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Watch,” he said, twisting his fingers to make it spin on the table. It spun so rapidly that the hole was hardly visible.

"Look at that," she said, staring at the ring in a trance. "It looks like a coin when it's spinning that fast."

He stared at the ring and saw the resemblance. But before it could slow down to a wobble, her hand was stroking his cheek, and he had forgotten all about it.

"Are you a gambling man?" she asked him, but it sounded like a moan more than anything.

"If I'm sure I'll win," he responded, stroking her thigh.

"I can't take much more of this," she said, leaning into him. "Stop teasing me and get to the point." He took the opportunity to kiss her, passionately, fiercely. He was so overbearing that he knocked over her drink. "Ignore it," she groaned. "Just keep going."

He stopped to say, "I don't know if I should take you home with me or not."

"If you don't, then this? All this?” she slurred hungrily, placing his hand between her legs where it was wet, “I can never forgive you for this."

"Well, then!" he yelped in surprise. "There's no stopping me now. I'll carry you home if I have to," he growled, smiling wickedly at her.

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"You underestimate me."

"Oh, you've got me all riled up!"

"Do you want me?"

"I want you baby."

"How much?"

"I wanna be loved by you," she sighed glazily. "Just you. Nobody else but you. Whatever you want from me is fine — I don't mind, I really don't. You decide."

Peter already felt the erection forming in his pants, and being unable to contain himself for a moment longer, he took Cassie's hand and dragged her out of there.

The two ran through the rain to the car, laughing the whole time. Cassie’s hair was still looking glamorous as they entered the car and took off, as if the rain hadn’t affected it at all. The drive to their house was a short one, and once they were inside, the carnal something that had been lacking between them was lit up by the events of that night. The two didn’t make it upstairs, settling for the couch. It was passionate, it was sensual, it was fiery. Once it was over, Peter held Cassie tightly, a feeling of ecstasy lingering in him from head to toe.

“That was amazing,” he said. “It felt like… the first time. Why can’t we go back to this? Back to how it was in the beginning? Remember how it was back then? I used to drop to my knees and worship you like a goddess. You were a light brightly shining. All I could see was you, you, you." Cassie didn't move or make a noise, but Peter chose to go on, unable to stop himself. "I want to be honest with you… for a while now I’ve been feeling like there’s something missing between us. The light… it's vanished."

A moment's silence pervaded the air perversely. And then, a voice—

"It hasn’t. You've just been too busy fucking someone else to notice."

Peter looked down at Cassie in his arms, but he realized the voice wasn't coming from her. He turned his head around toward the staircase, and there he saw Cassie sitting on the stairs, hugging her legs with her arms, sorrow in her eyes. He looked down at the Cassie in his arms and looked back at the Cassie on the stairs, and his stomach lurched. Suddenly, the Cassie in his arms got up and began to dress, mumbling, “I have to go.” And then she was out the door in a flash of hair.

Peter felt the elation rushing through him only a moment ago vanish, replaced by a sickening combination of dread and confusion. He stood up and turned to the staircase. Before him was Cassie, with a blotchy face and an ugly bun, wearing the same lazy outfit she had on that morning, staring at him with pain searing from her expression.

"I… I don't understand." She said. "You knew I was home. Or did you forget? Are you that drunk? Or are you just that cruel?" Her voice cracked as she said the word cruel, and he knew he should have felt it like a crack in his heart, but…

"I don't know what you mean," he stuttered out, genuinely meaning it.

"Oh you don't? Well, isn't that convenient," she muttered, giving him a weak smile. "I don't even know what to say to you. Should I be angry? I don't know, I never learned how to; I've never raised my voice at you, and I don't think I could even if I tried… Should I hold this against you? I'm sure I should, but I'm too weak to push you away, it's no use; every toss and shove would only fling you back to me. I'm stuck… trapped in between what I want, what you deserve, an ideal punishment — and what I'm capable of, which, when it comes to you, to us, is… pathetically limited. I could never hurt you, even if I tried to. Even if you hurt me, like you have, I could never respond by hurting you back. So please, Peter. Tell me what to do, tell me what I should do with this, with what you've done. How should I react?"

He tried to form words to express his muddled thoughts, but everything in his mind was shapeless and floating.

"Stop staring at me like I have any answers for you," she sighed. "You're the one who did this, and you are the only one who can fix this."

"Fix what?" Frustration tinted Peter's otherwise confounded voice.

"Oh, please stop it with the innocent act. You can wear that mask all you want, but it's tattered and torn and the lies are already peeking out of its holes."

"Cassie, listen to me: I mean it when I say I don't understand what you're talking about. You were in my arms just a second ago, and now you're there accusing me of—"

"Did you enjoy your little game? Seducing a stranger? Is that your poison for the day? You do remember your wife is still here, right? I've never left, I've always been here, in the background, put on mute by your wandering mind. I'm not nothing; I'm right in front of you — flesh, blood and all. Don't look through me like I'm invisible!"

He noticed that he had been staring at her out of focus, unable to process the mirage in front of him. It felt as if he was in a dream: nothing felt real.

"Pay attention to me, to this!" she said, gesturing at the ring on her finger. "I'm your wife! The vows we made weren't some sordid joke, they were a sacred promise we both swore to abide by, above all else, no matter what comes in our way. And look at you, how easily you're able to crush them into dust with one heartless squeeze of your hand. You deserve the same fate yourself." She paused, then sighed deeply as she stared down at her feet. "But the only revenge I could ever fulfill is against myself, for letting this happen… for not noticing you slipping away from me.”

He noticed how her entire demeanor became passive, doll-like. Except she didn't look like a doll; she was blotchy and worn, bland and stale. He hated to think it, but it forced its way into his thoughts: she looked ugly.

"It's my fault, isn't it?” she mumbled out flatly. He stared at her, afraid she had somehow heard what he had just thought. “I did something to make this happen — or rather, did nothing to stop it."

Still speechless, he examined her helplessly. He had no understanding of what was transpiring, and he couldn’t put into words the disarray he felt roaring inside his head.

“There must be something wrong with me. It’s that, isn’t it? I’m not enough for you, am I? Is this not enough?” she asked, placing her hand between her legs. “Are these not enough?” she asked, grabbing her breasts. “Are my words not enough? My deeds? Is my presence not enough? Is my heart, the blood pulsing through my veins not enough? There must be something wrong with me then. I’m faulty, the pieces — the pieces don't fit. I'm broken,” Cassie breathed out. And then she bolted up the stairs and disappeared from Peter's sight.

"No wait, Cassie, I can fix this!"

He heard a door slam, and was about to chase after her, but feeling suddenly nauseous, instead he ran to the bathroom and threw up. Rattled and dizzy, he flushed, barely able to see his surroundings through the blur of his vision; after quickly wiping his mouth, he ran upstairs in a daze. Checking every room, he was baffled to notice that Cassie was gone. Running downstairs, he screamed out Cassie’s name again and again. He checked the basement, the study, the kitchen, unable to find her anywhere. Finally, he checked the sunroom — but he stopped, caught by the snare of hindsight, trapped by the dozen paintings surrounding him, hung like fragile wishes upon the winter of the wall. Everything turned with a snap into freezing, but they seemed to be glowing, as if they were attempting to lure him toward them. Each painting was filled with love and light — and that was their bait, that was what would fold around him like a venus fly trap if he stood there for a second longer. He turned to head back into the house, a panic jump starting the staccato of his heart, but his eyes caught a glimpse of Cassie from the window; she was standing in the backyard.

As he walked outside, Peter was nonplussed to note that the rain had stopped, and furthermore, there was a summer heat thick in the air; the garden was in full bloom. He wandered up to Cassie, who was now kneeling by the flowerbed, which was filled with a diverse spectrum of flowers. She picked a ruby red rose, and stood up, turning to face him.

“Here,” she said, handing him the flower, “isn’t it pretty?”

Peter was back to being speechless. There she was, calm and pleasant — yet another burden to face.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” she sighed, her arms gesturing to the beautiful scenery around her. “Remember how we met? In college, onstage, the first rehearsal: I was playing Hippolyta, and you were playing Theseus. The first words you ever spoke to me were ‘what are you wearing?’, and I told you to mind your own business. You called me Cass, and I asked you how you knew my name. And remember what you said? You said you were my future husband. You were talking about the play of course, but I’ll always remember that…”

“Cass, baby,” Peter started, practically pleading, “tell me what’s going on. What happened earlier? How were you… just please, tell me what’s going on.”

Cassie had turned back around to admire the flowers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

“Please, Cassie. I’m confused, and tired, and nothing makes sense right now. I just want an explanation for all this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” she repeated in an eerily similar tone.

Before Peter could say anything else, Cassie disappeared with a flicker, as did the flowerbed, which was suddenly empty. It was raining again, and the warmth he felt just a second ago was gone.

He stood still, frozen as memories seeped into his mind and drenched his soul wetter than the rain drenched his body. That was the first time they met, just as she had put it; it was seared into his head like a miraculous promise offering him the world, offering him all kinds of other first moments. And there were many other firsts: their first date, their first kiss, their first lovemaking, their first month together… and each first revealed to him more the light that she was, the light that lingered inside her like a sun. Then there was their first anniversary, their first vacation together, their engagement and wedding, their honeymoon; all of these first kept escalating a build-up within Peter — he felt like his passion for her would only keep growing. But then he began noticing that their firsts were becoming less and less frequent, sporadic. And then there was the first that Cassie began begging from him incessantly, on a daily basis: their first child. Peter kept pushing it off, doubtful that he ever wanted to have a child, but afraid of telling her — and then, one day, it stopped. Her constant pleading stopped just like that, as did other things. She was changing: she stopped putting effort into her looks, she didn’t want to go out anymore. She stopped drinking, she stopped making love to him. She stopped looking radiant, it was all replaced with a dull aura that depressed him whenever he looked at her. And so he stopped looking: he chose to cover his eyes from what she was becoming, he chose not to pay attention to her. And then, the firsts stopped altogether. Their time together became tiresome and boring, she became tiresome and boring; and he felt like there was nothing he could do to change it. Now, the only first awaiting them was death.

But maybe he was wrong: maybe she hadn’t given up, maybe it was he that had given up. Maybe he covered his eyes from their future, replacing it with a cypher, a blank space; maybe it was he who made the decision to stop trying. Maybe her dullness was nothing more than a reaction to him, to his actions. Maybe that led to the fights they seemed to be having so often now, maybe that led to everything else, all the chaos and pain, all the unnecessary suffering, all the—

But it didn’t much matter. Because it could be fixed, it could all be fixed. Might as well forget about it all for now… yes, forget. It would all be fixed tomorrow, after a bit of sleep. Yes, it was best to forget for now. He was sure of it.

Feeling gruesomely somber, Peter headed back inside — head bowed, hands in his pocket. He was soaking wet by the time he entered the sun room. The paintings were less hostile, but he had no intention to linger. He heard a soft sound coming from the kitchen, as if someone was trying to silence their weeping. He entered the kitchen and saw Cassie there, leaning against the kitchen counter, the hazy morning sun coming through the window and lighting up her face, tears falling from her eyes and forming a small puddle on the counter. The pancake on the frying pan was burnt black. He went to turn the stove off, and then went up to Cassie, turning her head so that she was facing him. The tears in her eyes almost didn’t feel authentic, as if they were illusions, tricks, lies.

“You never cry,” Peter murmured, wiping her tears.

“And you used to love me,” she retorted dryly.

“Hey, I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

“No, you’ll always love who I used to be. Whoever I am now, it isn’t enough for you.” She looked into his eyes, and the tears swimming in hers refracted the light shining in through the window.

“Look,” he said, stumbling over his own words, “I don’t know what I’ve done to you, I don’t understand what… but the point is, whatever I did or didn’t do, please forgive me. I love you, more than anything. I would never hurt you intentionally.”

“I don’t think I can,” she whispered, her breath trembling. “Forgive you, I mean.”

“Please, please just give me another chance,” Peter blurted out before he could stop himself, “it was the first and the last time.” It was like he had no control of himself, the words began pouring out of his mouth like magma, turning into stone a sudden guilt that had been flickering within him for the past hour — so elusive until these words solidified it. “I won’t ever do it again, I promise.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“I beg of you,” he pleaded, “trust in me when I swear to you upon the light shining through that window: it’s over.” He didn’t understand why he was saying these things; he did nothing wrong, he was sure of it. But they spilled out like a cup overflowing.

“Liar,” she seethed, the word scathing his ears, crawling into him and echoing through his bones. And then gradually the light coming in from the window became blinding, to the point that he had to cover his eyes. By the time he uncovered them, the kitchen was dark again, and he could hear the rain still pouring heavily outside. Suddenly he became aware of the fact that he was leaning against the kitchen counter, and that he was the one crying, he was the one forming a small puddle on the counter with his tears.

He heard a door slamming shut upstairs and he turned around, breaking away from his melancholy. It was Cassie, she must have run upstairs when he had his eyes covered. He rushed after her, tripping on the steps twice in his hurry. The bathroom door was closed, and a light was shining from the corners of the door. He went up to the door and tried to open it — it was locked.

He knocked, mumbling out, “Cassie? Are you ok?”

“Come back to bed,” she said, her voice stalking its way into his ears like a delicious gift. But it wasn’t coming from the bathroom: it was coming from the bedroom. He walked over to the bedroom door which was ajar, and peeked inside to see Cassie on their bed, touching herself and moaning. The lights were off, but he could see her figure clearly, almost too easily.

“I want you inside me,” she sighed, practically begging. He turned his head to look at the bathroom door, the light brightly shining, begging to escape from within. “Please, baby,” she cried out, her voice escalating as she rubbed herself faster. He rushed into the room, swinging the door wide open, and jumped on top of her. She wrestled with his belt buckle, trying to get his pants off in a frenzy, and he pulled her knickers off with one finger, tossing them across the room. He pulled her hair, bit her lip, and kissed her neck — and then suddenly he was inside her. He turned into an animal; he ravaged her roughly, unforgiving with his ruthless movement. She moaned and groaned, begging for more, and she let him decide exactly how he wanted to take her. Time lost all meaning as he lost himself in the paradise that was to him his primitivity.

Suddenly, he heard sobbing coming from somewhere outside the room, and he turned back to see the light shining from under the bathroom door creeping upon the floor outside the bedroom. He felt disoriented, but he didn’t stop: this was Cassie, right in front of him, shivering with pleasure. Nothing else mattered. But the sobbing, it just kept getting louder and louder, almost in unison with Cassie’s moaning and writhing.

And then a voice screamed out, “I CAN NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS!”

He was startled, but his hips kept moving. “You don’t hear that?” he asked Cassie.

“Ignore it, just keep going,” she said, matching his rhythm perfectly with her every move. It didn’t take long until he climaxed loudly, violently. He collapsed to his side of the bed, panting like a dog.

He noticed that the sobs stopped, just like that. He looked to his side, but was filled with a spike of dread as he saw the bed was empty. He scanned the room with his eyes to find her, but the second he looked toward the doorway, he froze. There was Cassie, standing still and staring at him: he couldn’t see her face, he only saw her silhouette surrounded by light.

“How could you?” she said in a monotonous, ice-cold voice. He gazed at her in disbelief, as his heart began racing. Somebody was caught. It wasn’t him — was it? Something was wrong, very wrong, but every time his mind reached out for an answer, it slithered away from him, hiding in the dark recesses of his mind. And it didn’t help that she kept saying the same three words in that same tone over and over and over. His mind began regurgitating screams that were screamed at him long ago, and they reverberated in his mind and mixed together with those three damn words until he just couldn’t take it anymore!

He turned on the light, and the silhouette vanished. There was no one there at the doorway — he was all alone. He sat there, on his bed, and a fit of sobs overtook him. Yes, something was very wrong, but his hands were covering his eyes again, and he was too tired to uncover them.

Time lost all meaning as he lost himself in the hell that was hidden deep within his heart. There was something there, something hidden under a sheet, but he refused to touch it. He was brought back to the present by a smell: a wonderful, delicious smell that warmed his stomach and brought a smile to his lips. Lots of noise (the sound of pots and pans) echoed up the stairs and it was confirmed: Cassie was cooking something. Everything was fine.

Peter got dressed and walked down the stairs lazily, just as he would have on any other given day, like everything was normal. Which it was. He was sure of it. He stepped into the kitchen, and the sight of Cassie whistling a tune as she put something in the oven made him grin widely. She turned around and jumped back.

"Oh! You startled me, darling," she exclaimed, coming up to him and giving him a gentle, loving kiss. "I'm making your favorite: chicken pot pie," she said, stroking his cheek.

"Can I help in any way?" he asked, practically giddy seeing her act like herself again.

"Oh no, don't you worry about it sweetheart. Just go sit down on the couch and watch something, I'll bring it over to you when it's done. But before you go," she said, kissing him once more, "one for the road." She smiled and turned him around, leading him out the kitchen.

He reached the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, and noticed that the TV was on — and not only that: Cassie was sitting on the couch, gesturing to him to join her. He looked back into the kitchen and saw Cassie whistling as she cleaned the kitchen, and looked into the living room to see her on the couch. The warmth in his stomach suddenly turned into nausea.