The Saturday morning sun, a weak and watery thing, barely pierced the heavy drapes in Natasha's bedroom. It was enough, though, to illuminate the dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny reflection of the chaos churning inside her.
'It's daybreak already, and I don't even feel like leaving the bed' she whispered to herself.
She stretched, a groan escaping her lips, and sank back into the plush mattress, the familiar weight of misery settling upon her.
She laid still on the bed, reminiscing how her life had become, especially her marriage. It wasn't the fiery inferno of hate, but a slow suffocating ember, threatening to extinguish her spirit entirely.
She had been replaying all the arguments she had with Reynolds ever since she got married to him. Always the same script; her yearning for connection, his wall of aloof indifference.
Suddenly, she heard a moan sound in her bedroom, right next to her.
"Jesus! Reynolds. What are you doing here?" she stuttered.
Reynolds in her bed, after months of pointedly not being her husband.
'How come I didn't know he slept right next to me?' she wondered.
'What if this is a good sign? I'd better take advantage of this.' She thought to herself.
"Good morning, Reynolds," she managed, the words feeling brittle and unfamiliar.
She tried to read his expression, but his face was as impassive as ever, the years of practice showing.
He waved a dismissive hand, his eyes still half closed. "Oh, my dear wife is awake," he said, the words laced with a familiar, biting sarcasm.
He stretched, a long, languid movement that seemed designed to highlight his physical presence, her emotional absence. Then he turned to her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"And why are you in my room?" he asked.
The absurd question hung in the air like a bad joke. Natasha's jaw tightened. This was Reynolds' game, his preferred method of engagement; confusion, condescension, and a thinly veiled layer of cruelty.
"Reynolds, this is our room. We are supposed to share it as a couple, but instead you publicly announced in front of the maids that the room was mine, not ours. So I should be asking why you are here." She blurted.
He sat up, leaning against the headboard, the sheets falling away to reveal the stark lines of his collar bone.
"Natasha, I wouldn't have though you'd be the one to forget so easily."
The barb stung. She hadn't forgotten. How could she have? "I haven't forgotten anything," she retorted, the edge of her voice finally showing. "I'm just trying to understand. Why are you here? After all this time, after everything, why are you in my bed?"
He sighed, the sound theatrical and exasperating. "You don't get it, do you?" he queried
"Get what?" Natasha blurted, confused.
"This is my house, and I get to call the shots here. So don't you forget that this marriage is only on paper, and you don't get to tell me where couples do sleep because we aren't couples, okay?"
His words were a deliberate taunt, a barbed invitation to delve into the wreckage of their marriage. But Natasha refused to play. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a dramatic outburst, of tears, of pleading.
"If you missed the ambiance, Reynolds," she said, her voice surprisingly calm, "I don't care what you think this is anymore, and don't worry about me because I won't get into your way, so just pretend that I don't exist."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floor. She wouldn't give him the power to dictate the narrative of this strange, morning encounter.
"I'm going to make coffee," she said, and stood up, turning her back on him. "You can either join me, or you can go back to your 'room'. The choice is yours."
As she walked towards the door, she felt his gaze on her back, heavy and assessing. She didn't look back. She didn't know what he wanted, but she knew one thing; she wouldn't let him win. Not this time. The first step to winning, she realized, was simply walking away. The rest, she would figure out over a cup of coffee. Maybe two.
"I see you've changed," Reynolds blurted, the word hung in the air.
"I learnt from the best," Natasha replied, pulling the door in front of her.
"Xander, isn't it?" he queried.
Natasha burst into laughter, "What are you insinuating? That I am now on to your friend?"
"Well, you said it yourself." He replied, raising his shoulder up.
"You could have saved me the stress though." She taunted.
"So you go around sleeping with my friends now?" he asked, swinging his legs over to the side of the bed.
"Wow! I never knew you were this ridiculous. I shouldn't have expected much from a drunkard like you." She blurted, left the room angrily, and slammed the door behind her.
The bitter aroma of the coffee barely masked the bitterness swirling inside Natasha. The white enamel of the kitchen counter felt cool against her skin as she perched on its edge, the mug warming her hands. The argument with Reynolds replayed in her mind like a broken record, each accusation of fresh wound.
"Sleeping around with his friends?" the words echoed, venomous and baseless. She mumbled them aloud, the sound hollow in the otherwise silent kitchen.
'How could he even entertain such a thought? When I've been nothing but a good wife to him even though he doesn't acknowledge me' she muttered.
She traced the rim of her mug, her gaze unfocused. Doubt, insidious, and unwelcome crept in. Had she done something to make him think this way? No, she reasoned, she had been herself. Warm, yes, but never unfaithful.
The weight of their fight settled heavily on her chest. 'Was arguing with him the right thing to do?' she wondered. But the accusation had been so jarring, so hurtful, that a defensive wall had instinctively sprung up, fueled by hurt and disbelief.
Now, she was left with the aftermath, the silence, and the gnawing worry that this argument was something more than just a momentary lapse in judgement.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the vibration of her phone. She glanced down, frowning. It was a number she didn't recognize. Hesitantly, she tapped the screen open.
A message from Daniel: "Hey Natasha, it's Daniel from the cinema last night. Hope you're having a good day. Fancy grabbing a drink tonight?"
Daniel. The name clicked into place. The charming stranger who'd held her hands throughout the movie the previous night. He'd been comforting and friendly, and had somehow managed to snag her number.
Now he has sent a message, and he wants to grab a drink. She'd dismissed it a fleeting encounter, a harmless flirtation. Now in the wake of her argument with Reynolds, the invitation felt complicated.
A part of her, the hurt and angry part, considered saying yes. A part of her wanted to lash out, to prove to Reynolds that she could have options, that she wasn't the meek, faithful wife. It was a reckless move, a temporary salve on a deep wound.
But then, the more rational, deeply ingrained part of her, the part that still valued her marriage, recoiled at the thought.
She reread Daniel's message, the casual invitation now laced with a hint of danger. The easy escape it offered was tempting, but ultimately, she knew, the only way to navigate this was to confront the root of the problem.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, picturing Reynolds face, and all the hurtful words he'd said to her began to echo in her head.
"You are not my type"
"Our marriage is only on paper"
"You are married to me because of your incompetent father, who couldn't manage his business well."
"Xander, isn't it?"
"You are now sleeping around with my friends."
All the hurtful words replayed in her head, again and again. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath. The coffee had grown cold. She walked to the sink, poured it down the drain, she picked up her phone.
She needed to call Daniel, so she could politely decline his request, leaving that particular door firmly closed. She was about dialing his number when her phone buzzed.
It was Daniel, she felt reluctant at first, before answering it.
"Hello"
"Hey beautiful, how are you today?" he asked.
"I'm fine, and you?"
"I'm okay, you don't sound good though. Is everything okay at your end?" he asked, sounding concerned. "You can talk to me about anything though. Or is it the side effects of yesterday's movie?" he asked again.
"No, No. I'm fine." She blurted.
"Okay. So what do you think?"
Natasha confused asked "Think about what?"
"Common, I know you got my text,"
"Oh, that. Yeah. I'm not sure Daniel, I don't think," she was still trying to find the right words to use when Daniel abruptly interrupted her.
"Okay. I'll take that as a 'Yes'. Will text you the venue now. See you by seven tonight. Bye." He ended the call.