[The Cuckolded Wife] (Complete)

Actually, I'm really bad at writing titles. Whenever I write something, the title is always the date, or

just the simple word "Practice." I just wanted to joke around and come up with a slightly cheesy title,

sorry everyone.

She felt a little resentful towards him.

How could this be? She was also a little surprised. They used to be the envy of everyone! When did things

become so cold between them?

She felt a little resentful towards him.

She entered the room in the dark, having already taken off her high heels and carefully placed them in the shoe cabinet. She didn't dare 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,

so she didn't ask questions, it was just always the same, a few words and the same unchanging answer: "I worked overtime today."

"I went for a drink with James."

Would he lie to her? Probably not. Would such a silent man be embracing another

woman somewhere else? If possible, she would sincerely wish them 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 already imagined

what it would be like to have cypress floors all over the place. The living room wasn't like the large sofas that most families had, but rather a Japanese style—a low

wooden table with a stack of cushions, where one could kneel or sit. 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, a line of neat hiragana that

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 that Taiwanese people were used to.

The bathroom had a square bathtub; when a person squatted in, only their head would be above the water. She would

first rinse herself under the showerhead, then, like an ancient bath attendant, squat by the tub, waiting to wash his back.

After , they would change into yukatas and watch TV and chat together.

Thinking back, the paintings of ronin on the walls, the tatami under the low table, and the elegantly

dressed —all were bought for him. His love for Japanese culture and the oriental aura he exuded

made her want to buy a ton of things, decorating the house like a Kyoto home, so that stepping inside felt like stepping into

a Japanese drama. Before, she would always stare blankly as he walked around the house; every line of his body

was so refined and elegant. His clear eyes, his distinct pupils, his hair, his fingers—in

the beige-toned living room, they seemed particularly poetic and Zen-like.

But she wasn't a calm and quiet woman. She was lively and active, with a pace that seemed out of place in this room.

Perhaps the room didn't like her either. She finally managed to sit down on the tatami mat, her

feet, numb and sore from wearing high heels all day. Reaching up to touch her stiff toes, she noticed 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 was afraid

of leaving a long, unwearable snag.

Just like between him and her.

She took off her slightly smelly coat. Her immediate priority seemed to be taking a shower, but she really didn't want to move

. She looked at the moonlight streaming in from the balcony. Not really looking at it intently, just unsure where to focus her eyes;

so tired , she didn't even have the strength to move her eyeballs.

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

she thought.

Her lower body still felt a little numb; the passion of two hours ago had faded like this. The other man was a

Japanese man —Mr. Miyamoto. His fingers were long and slender, 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 now relentlessly rubbing against her skin. 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 didn't hug him.

She didn't wrap her arms around his neck; she simply lay sprawled in front of him,

a cigarette still dangling from her fingers. She screamed wildly, the cigarette butt flying from her fingers, ash scattering across the sheets. Just like

that, harder! Faster! She didn't care whether the Japanese man understood what she was shouting;

she was immersed in wave after wave of assault, 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 arrived.

This was the first time in eight years that 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. She smiled and planted a kiss on Mr. Miyamoto's

cheek before rushing out of the hotel.

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

"Sis, where are you? Why aren't you answering your phone? I've been looking for you all day, come to my house!" This

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 after another.

"What's wrong?"

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

"What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"I need to borrow your camera, and take some photos for me. I cleared out a bunch of clothes today, and I want to

sell , oh, and shoes too..."

"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 even 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 annoyed expression, and then apologized to her sister.

She promised to come and take photos for her tomorrow. "It's okay, you're my little sister!" Like her mother used to hug

them , she let her sister snuggle into her arms.

Why did she tell such a lie? Without thinking, very naturally,

"I'm sorry" just blurted out. 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 up, take a shower, and go to bed.

She started unbuttoning her clothes, her lazy body not getting up to properly undress, and just tossing her clothes around carelessly.

Her buttocks felt like they weighed a ton; even though she was completely naked, she was still glued to the tatami mat. She placed her hands on the low table and

leaned over the window, facing away from the moon. It was a full moon today, and she remembered the Chinese saying about its brightness.

He was there; he had been standing there watching her for some time now. "Maybe I woke him up when I was taking off my clothes,"

"Maybe he wasn't asleep at all," "Ask me, ask me where I went? 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; he was wearing that familiar yukata.

Untying the knot at his waist, she pulled down his boxer shorts and put them in her mouth, nibbling and licking them. Like

an actress in an adult film, she moved her head up and down, making sucking sounds. She skillfully stroked

his testicles, lightly scratching his inner thigh with her nails.

They were hard, but not so hard, not like during their passionate love when the veins were bulging, not like when they were newlyweds when

they hot and hard.

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

His expression was complicated, with sadness and something else in it. But she was tired, in the home she had built herself

, yet there was no place to relax, to find comfort.

"What happened? What has happened these past few years? Haven't we been trying our best?" She

had a lot on her mind, but no words actually came out.

She pulled her hands away from his loose grip, lovingly stroking the doll in a kimono on the shelf.

"Can we be husband and wife again in the next life?"

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

(The End)

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[The Cuckolded Wife] (Complete)

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