Her Married Mouth
He knew he shouldn’t answer when she called at 2 a.m. Her name flashing on his cracked phone screen was a sin by itself — her husband’s friend, his boss’s wife, the woman with the gold ring she never took off, except maybe when her lips were busy with secrets. He opened the gate for her himself — barefoot, boxers hanging low, half hoping she’d turn back when the streetlight caught her face. She didn’t. She brushed past him like she’d done this before, her perfume staining the stale hallway air. “Don’t turn on the light,” she whispered, pushing him against the wall before he could find a lie to stop her. Her mouth tasted like gin and a promise he was too weak to keep. He could feel her wedding band scraping his jaw as her hands cupped his face, demanding more, demanding everything. He should’ve stopped her. Should’ve told her to go back to the car idling on the street. Should’ve reminded her that he liked his job — that he liked not being dead when her husband found out. But her mouth w...