Maya stood before the full-length mirror bolted to the back of the bedroom door, the silk of her robe cool against her skin. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor and highlighting the curves she knew were still there, even if Tom seemed blind to them. Late thirties. Not old, not by a long shot. Her breasts were full, heavy, the dark nipples hidden beneath the emerald green silk. They strained against the fabric when she moved, aching with a sensitivity that went perpetually ignored. Her belly was softer than it used to be, marked by the faint silver lines of motherhood, but it flowed into rounded hips, a flare that tapered down to strong thighs. She turned sideways, tracing the line from her waist, over the swell of her hip, down her leg. It was a good body. A woman’s body. Built for pleasure, built for fucking. Built, apparently, for lying untouched.
She’d bought this robe last month. A hopeful purchase. Maybe the slick feel of it, the way it hinted at the skin beneath without giving everything away, would spark something. Anything. Hope, she was learning, was a bitter fucking pill to swallow night after night.
Behind her, the bed creaked. Tom shifted, sighing heavily. He’d been pretending to read the same page of his tedious historical non-fiction book for the last twenty minutes, his eyes occasionally flicking to the muted basketball game on the small TV across the room. Avoidance. He was a master of it.
Maya took a breath, the silk whispering against her skin. She tightened the belt, walked towards the bed. The air felt thick, charged with everything unsaid, everything undone. She perched on the edge, her weight dipping the mattress. Tom didn’t look up.
“Game almost over?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.
He grunted. “Few minutes left.” He finally lowered the book, placing it face down on his nightstand. His eyes stayed on the screen. Khaki pajama pants, faded t-shirt. His uniform of disinterest.
S
