Ava shed the weight of the day along with her silk blouse. Mid-thirties felt less like a number and more like a state of being slightly, perpetually, adrift. Her apartment spoke of success – Mark’s success, mostly. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city's pulse, minimalist furniture that cost more than her first car, surfaces kept sterilely clean by a weekly service. It was beautiful. Impersonal. Tonight, like most nights Mark was working late or traveling, the silence felt louder than the traffic hum below.
She stood in her living room, the city lights painting stripes across the polished floorboards and her own skin. In just her lace bra and panties – practical beige, nothing exciting – she stretched, arching her back, rolling her shoulders. The movement pulled the thin fabric taut across her breasts, full and round, the nipples hardening slightly against the lace not from cold, but from a familiar, low thrum of restlessness. She caught her reflection in the dark glass. Tall, lean muscle sculpted from yoga classes she attended more for the routine than the zen, honey-blonde hair pulled back carelessly, revealing the elegant line of her neck. Objectively, she knew she was attractive. Striking, even. Men looked. Mark had certainly looked, once upon a time. Now, his gaze seemed to slide over her, landing on his phone screen or the next deal.
She padded barefoot to the kitchen island, the cool marble a shock against her soles. Pouring a generous glass of Cabernet, she leaned her hip against the counter, swirling the deep red liquid. Her gaze drifted across the street to the block of apartments opposite hers. Older brick, less ostentatious, its windows dark squares mirroring the night. Most curtains were drawn. Privacy valued, even amidst the urban sprawl. Yet, her own window remained defiantly bare. Mark insisted on the view. Why pay for it if you hide it? he’d argued. So, she lived her evenings partially illuminated, a figure moving through well-l
