Mark sat rigid on the edge of the armchair, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the worn, slightly scratchy fabric. He felt like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap at the slightest touch. The living room, usually a space of comfort and familiarity, felt alien tonight. Too small. The air was thick, heavy with a silence that wasn’t empty but pregnant, vibrating with unspoken tension and a sick kind of anticipation. He couldn’t stop glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, its steady ticking echoing the frantic beat in his own chest. Each tick felt like a hammer blow against his sanity. Ten minutes past the hour. He was late. Or maybe right on time. Mark didn’t know which was worse.
His gaze slid, inevitably, towards his wife. Sarah. She was pacing, a slow, restless circuit from the window overlooking the dark street back towards the center of the room, near the couch. Her movements were usually fluid, graceful, but tonight there was a jittery undercurrent, a tightly coiled energy that mirrored his own, though perhaps hers stemmed from a different source. Excitement? Nerves? He couldn’t read the subtle flush high on her cheekbones.
Mark forced himself to really look at her, cataloging the details like a man about to lose something precious. The simple, tight black dress she’d chosen clung to every curve. He knew that dress. He loved that dress. He loved the way it hugged the generous swell of her hips, the way it dipped low in the back, revealing the delicate line of her spine. He loved the way it showcased the fullness of her breasts, breasts he knew intimately – their weight in his hands, the taste of her skin, the way her nipples hardened under his touch. Tonight, those curves, those breasts, her long, smooth legs ending in sharp black heels that made her stand taller, prouder… tonight, they were bait. An offering.
Her blonde hair, usually tied back when she was home, was down, cascading over her shoulders like liquid gold, catching the lo
