The sullen woman who cheated

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The Resentful Woman Who Cheated

Author: Lin Xiaojin Layout: tim118 Word Count: 2772 Published: 2006/10/18 On: Longmen

Actually, I'm not good at writing titles. Whenever I write, the title is just the date, or simply the two words "Practice." I just wanted to joke around and come up with a more cheesy title, sorry, please forgive me.

She resented him a little.

How could this be? She herself was a little surprised. They used to be an enviable couple! When did they become so cold towards each other?

She resented him a little.

She entered the room in the dark, having already taken off her high heels and carefully placed them in the shoe cabinet. She dared not put on slippers, afraid that the sound of her footsteps would wake the sleeping man in the house.

Maybe she was overthinking it, maybe he wasn't even there.

She didn't know when it started, but his absence no longer caused her unease; it wasn't feigned maturity or trust that led her to ignore him, but rather the same old answers: "I worked overtime today," or "I went for a drink with James."

Would he lie to her? Probably not. Would that silent man be embracing another woman somewhere else? If he was, she would sincerely wish him well.

Her stockinged feet kept slipping, almost forcing her to crawl on all fours across the wooden floor. The wooden flooring in the house was her request; when she first came to see the house, she had envisioned the entire floor covered with cypress wood. The living room wasn't like a typical family home with a large sofa for the whole family, but rather a Japanese-style space—a low wooden table with cushions, suitable for kneeling or sitting. When the French windows were open, they would gather around the table to make tea.

"We're like an old married couple!" A small, bell-shaped wind chime hung by the window, with a long piece of paper dangling from it. On it were sweet words he had written for her, written in neat hiragana, which she still couldn't quite pronounce. It seemed to say something like, "Let me take care of you for the rest of my life!"

Because of him, she began to love Japanese customs and artifacts, abandoning the European-style bathroom design she was accustomed to in Taiwan. The bathroom had a square bathtub; when you squatted in, only your head would be above the water. She would wash herself under the showerhead first, then, like an ancient bathing maiden, squat by the tub, waiting to wash his back. After washing, she would change into a yukata, and the two of them would watch TV and chat together.

Thinking about it, the paintings of ronin on the walls, the tatami under the low table, and the elegantly dressed court dolls in the cabinet—all of these were bought for him. His love for Japanese culture and the oriental aura he exuded made her unable to resist buying a lot of things, decorating the house like a Kyoto home, so that stepping into the house felt like stepping into a scene from a Japanese drama. She used to watch him walk around the house, every line of his body so elegant and refined. His clear eyes, his bright pupils, his hair, his fingers—all seemed particularly poetic and Zen-like in the beige-toned living room.

But she wasn't a calm and quiet woman. She was lively and active, with a pace that clashed with the room.

Perhaps the room didn't like her either. She finally managed to sit on the tatami mat, her feet, numb from wearing high heels all day, aching. Reaching up to touch her stiff toes, she discovered her stockings were snagged on the edge of the tatami. She wanted to pull her foot back and rip the threads off the stockings, but she feared it would leave a long snag, rendering them unwearable.

Just like between him and her.

Taking off her slightly smelly coat, the immediate priority seemed to be taking a shower, but she really didn't want to move, gazing at the moonlight streaming in from the balcony. She wasn't really looking at him seriously; she just didn't know where to put her eyes. She was so tired, she didn't even have the strength to move her eyes.

Her thighs were so sore and numb. She really didn't understand how the Japanese could come up with such a torturous sitting position. "The sofa is better," she thought.

Her lower body was still a little numb; the passion of two hours ago was all that remained. The other person was a Japanese man—Mr. Miyamoto. His fingers were white and long, and his palms weren't particularly thick; he seemed like a man who had never done hard labor. But when he cupped her buttocks and pressed deeper, the warmth and force from his palms felt like he was crushing her. His fingers, which danced across the piano keys, were rubbing her skin with all their might. Ma gic! Like the serenade he played, like the martini he drank.

His back was strong and broad; she wondered what it would feel like to touch it. But she never hugged him.

Never, she didn't wrap her arms around his neck; she just lay out in front of him, a cigarette still dangling from her fingers. She screamed wildly, cigarette butts flying from her fingers, ash scattering across the sheets. "That's it! Harder! Faster!" She didn't care if the Japanese man understood her; she was immersed in wave after wave of pleasure, her mind drifting like a dream.

She slightly opened her closed eyelids. Mr. Miyamoto was half-asleep, his mouth slightly open, breathing heavily. Unlike the beastly growls of Japanese AV actors, he made a soft "oh," and she knew he had reached his climax.

This was the first time in eight years she had made love to another man, yet it felt as if she had handled this situation many times before. She quickly put back on her black suit, too lazy to put on underwear but slipping on stockings instead, smiled, planted a kiss on Mr. Miyamoto's cheek, and hurriedly left the hotel.

She turned on her phone; there was a voicemail message. Could it be him? Was he wondering why his wife hadn't come home yet?

"Sis, where are you? Why didn't you answer the phone? I've been looking for you all day, come to my house!" This little girl must have gotten into trouble again. She jumped into a taxi and sped to Bali, entering one of the houses converted into student apartments.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, you're finally here! I've been looking for you for ages!"

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I need to borrow your camera and take some photos for me. I cleared out a bunch of clothes today and wanted to sell them online, oh, and shoes..."

"I thought something had happened to you!"

"Nothing's wrong... What's wrong?"

"I didn't answer the phone because I was in a meeting! I rushed over as soon as I heard your message. I thought you had some trouble, you haven't finished writing the proposal due tomorrow..."

It was all nonsense, a string of lies flying out of her mouth. She didn't even understand what she was saying, but she still put on a helpless and angry expression, then apologized to her sister and promised to come and take photos for her tomorrow. "It's alright, you're my little sister after all!" Like how her mother used to hug them, she let her sister snuggle into her arms.

Why did she tell such a lie? Without thinking, "I'm sorry" just slipped out naturally. A feeling of apology churned in her stomach.

It was October, and the night was a bit chilly. It was two in the morning; she should hurry and shower and go to bed.

She started unbuttoning her clothes, her lazy body not getting up to properly undress, just tossing them haphazardly. Her bottom felt like it weighed a ton; even after she was completely naked, she remained glued to the tatami. She placed her hands on the low table and leaned towards the window. It was a full moon; she remembered the Chinese saying about its brightness.

He was there, standing there watching her. "Maybe I woke him up when I was undressing," she thought. "Maybe he wasn't asleep at all," she thought. "He'll ask me, ask me where I've been? Why am I home so late?" "Don't you love me? Why don't you want to know?"

Her mind was in turmoil, but he didn't say anything. She turned to face him, and he was wearing that familiar yukata.

She untied the knot at her waist, pulled down her boxer shorts, and put them in her mouth, nibbling and licking them. Like an adult film actress, she moved her head up and down, making sucking sounds. She skillfully stroked his testicles, lightly scratching his groin with her nails.

It was hard, but not so hard—not as hard as during their passionate lovemaking when the veins were bulging, not as hot and hard as during their honeymoon.

"You don't love me as much as before, do you?"

His expression was complex, a mixture of sadness and something else. But she was tired. In the home she had built with her own hands, there was no place to relax, no place to find comfort.

"What happened? What has happened these past few years? Haven't we been trying so hard?" Her mind was racing, but no words were exchanged.

She freed her hands from his loose grip, lovingly touching the kimono-clad doll on the shelf. "Let's be husband and wife again in the next life, okay?"

Without giving him a time to answer, she jumped from the balcony.

(The End)

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