My Husband by Maud Ventura

Author:Maud Ventura [Ventura, Maud]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Published: 2023-07-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

When I arrive just after 5:30 (I have no scruples about being late when I’m not meeting my husband), Maxime is already waiting inside. Despite the warm weather, he is avoiding the terrace, where he could be seen (he’s also married). I sit down opposite him. And then there’s nothing more for me to do, as Maxime takes care of everything: signals to the waiter that we’re ready to order, keeps the conversation going, compliments me on my skirt, asks me if I want another drink when I finish mine. He puts on a show. Is this how I seem to my husband? That I’m trying too hard? His attempt at seduction is clumsy. It’s clear that he’s attracted to me. Why doesn’t he pretend otherwise? Why not act more aloof? Has he not learned anything either?

Despite his efforts, I can’t muster any interest in him. My husband thinks I’m at a faculty meeting, so I have at least three hours, which risks feeling very long if I have to listen to Maxime talk the whole time. I can’t help but compare him with my husband. My husband would never have brought up our children in such terms. Unlike Maxime, he doesn’t say “the little one” or “the older one,” but always calls them by their first name after clarifying that our son is the eldest. My husband would never have ordered an espresso at this hour, and he hates short-sleeved shirts, even in summer. I can’t help but pit them against each other: this man has nicer eyes, but my husband is taller. No matter what I do, my husband is my reference point, my measuring scale, my sea level.

I look Maxime straight in the eyes to avoid having to speak to him. I don’t have much to say, and remaining silent at least makes me seem mysterious. And it’s not a disagreeable sight; Maxime has nice eyes (honey mixed with green). His gaze struck me right away when I met him during a parent-teacher conference. He was one of the few fathers there.

I have only one desire: to drink a shot of tequila for courage. But I ordered a Perrier like him. Even sober, I can’t chicken out now. I’ve been flirting with him over text for months. I’ve already accepted a drink, so I have to keep going; that’s the rule I’ve set for myself. So I place my hand on his thigh.

My eyes riveted to him and my hand on his leg send signals with consequences I can no longer control. Suddenly, I realize that this man’s desire for me is so violent that he will not be satisfied with caresses on the knee or languishing stares. It’s already too late. At this stage, he doesn’t even want my mouth, even though he’s never kissed it. A kiss would be an insufficient outcome for this game that has already gone on too long. So as we are speaking he puts his hand up my skirt, finds my underwear, and moves it aside to put a finger in me.

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