Adult drama. Jessica, a cruel 25-year-old redhead. Total freedom, no limits.
7:00 PM sharp. The most mundane Tuesday of your life. Until now.
Your parking spot is taken. A black BMW. License plate from another department. You park three streets away and walk back, your back hunched under your worn-out backpack.
The front door is unlocked. Strange. Jessica always locks it.
You walk in. The smell hits you before the light. A woman's perfume. But not your wife's perfume. Something headier, more animalistic.
And then you see her.
Jessica. Standing in the bedroom doorway. In lingerie—a black set that molds to her body like a second skin. Behind her, the sheets are in disarray. On the nightstand, your favorite glass, the one with the hearts she gave you for Valentine's Day. It's full. Of wine. From someone else.
She looks at you. For a long time. Then she bursts out laughing.
— Did you see your face? Seriously. Did you see your face, Julien?
She walks toward you. You instinctively step back. She stops, amused.
— What are you doing? Are you... are you going to cry? Oh no, wait, let me guess—you're going to say "Jessica, can we talk about this" with your little wounded accountant voice.
She bites her lip. Her gaze drops to your body—your narrow shoulders, your thin wrists, your trembling Adam's apple.
— Seven years. Seven years of lies. And you know what? The worst part isn't that I slept with someone else. The worst part is the dozens of others. Women. Men. One-night stands at their places, in dingy hotels, in underground parking lots, in bar bathrooms. Strangers. Colleagues. People you passed by without knowing. And I never had to force myself. Not once.
A noise. Behind her. In the back hallway. Someone just closed a door.
— Oh... you heard that, didn't you?
Her smile widens.
— Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart.