My life began with grey. I lived in a grey house with grey walls, ate grey food, and lived a grey life. My family was poor and broken. My Dad was always at work, and my mom was always trying to keep the house, and all of us, from crumbling. Then the walls began to fall, and my parents separated; My mom died of grief. I promised myself that I wouldn’t have that. I have a steady job, with time for my family, and I have a wife who will someday bear my children. I. Hate. It. It’s insanely boring and static. My only escape is the Nighthawk’s cafe. I go there on weekends after my shift, and I chat with the bartender and see what Miss Scarlet is doing.

Miss Scarlet is the one enigma in my life. She’s somehow wild with passion, but delicate like a budding flower. Every time I go there she has another man at her side, but she doesn’t seem like the type who lingers at street corners. There is something about her that makes me play with the gold band on my finger, or check my jet black hair in my glass.

As the time has gone by, it has become increasingly hard to pay attention the bartender’s small talk. His words always begin to fade out slowly, as I try to prevent my head from turning ninety degrees to the left to see Miss Scarlet with another man. At first I questioned why my chest would hurt when she got too close to a man, but then I realised why, and I am repressing those thoughts in the back of my mind.

Those thoughts began to creep up on me like a predator to its prey. Those quick glances have turned into welcoming smiles, then shots of whiskey which the bartender said was from ‘a friend’. Eventually, Miss Scarlet gets my hints, that I do admit, I should not have been dropping. “Hello there tall, dark and handsome, what’s your name?” My breath hitches and I make a face that is a mix of pleasure, guilt, and confusion. It makes me look really stupid. “Are ya just gonna stare at me, or actually use that gaping mouth of yours to talk.”

“Hello Miss, my name is Dante.”

“Dante…” She pauses, and runs her finger down the outline of my jaw.

“I like the sound of that name.” She has a catlike smirk, and I can start to feel the beads of sweat forming on the base of my neck.

“It’s Italian.”

“Ohh, Italian, ya know I heard they make great lovers.” I can tell she is flirting with me. It makes me think of my poor wife back at home, and my dad; Italians are actually pretty terrible lovers now that I think about it.

She has seen that my expression has faded, and I am just staring off. In order to garner my attention, she brushes her hand on my cheek. I feel a pit in my stomach, and I awkwardly stand up.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I need to be going home now.”

I rush home and I feel bad when my wife sadly states ‘you’re home late’. The thoughts that I have forced back have broken their dam and are flowing out. They fight each other, saying ‘you can finally be free and live for adventure,’ or ‘you wanted stability and now you have it, and this stupid crush can ruin you.’

I can’t sleep from the guilt that is eating away at me. I stare at my wife’s sleeping figure and feel pained. One would think I feel this way because I feel bad;This was only half right. I feel bad because this is the first time in a year that I have honestly cared for her well-being. I remember how my mom used to tell me that even when they were at their worst, she could still care for my father. I can’t even remember the last time I called her beautiful.

It’s the next day, and I feel hesitant to occupy my usual seat at the bar. I avert Miss Scarlet’s burning gaze and I stare hard at my glass, as if I am trying to perform levitation. I can feel her eyes on me. My body is a map that she is searching, searching for what I don’t know. I hear the sound of a stool screeching against the floor, and a pair of high-heeled footsteps stalk over to me. A sultry voice purrs in my ear, “Hello Dante, we weren’t able to finish our conversation yesterday.” She sits down on the bar stool next to me. Her dress is tight, and her toned legs flows out of it like tanned rivers. She smirks, “Don’t you know it’s not nice to leave a lady waiting.”

“I-Um sorry ma’am.” I brush my hand through my hair and keep eye contact to a minimum.

“My name is Sophia by the way.” She smiles an odd smile, one that seems pure, but to the trained eye, you can see the cruel intentions behind it.

“That’s a beautiful name, it sounds…sweet.” I force an awkward smile, and she leans forward, putting her hand on my knee.

“Well darling, not just my name is sweet.” She licks her lips and motions to mine.

“You mean your hair? It’s a nice honey color.” Feigning innocence is the only thing that I can do to prevent this from getting risque.

“Sweetheart, you and I both know that’s not what I mean.”

“Actually no I don’t kn-”

“Excuse me, but here are your drinks.” Thankfully the bartender ends the conversation as he slides two shots glasses across the table, but the alcohol doesn’t help the situation.

The drinks keep flowing as I spend the entire night at that bar. Sophia and I talked for hours and we actually have a lot in common. We both came from a family of immigrants, we both are adventurous, and we both hate our jobs. After talking for almost the whole night, I come home to my wife asleep in our bed. I stroll my eyes across her features and I realise something. She is very bland. I creep into bed beside her, while still trying to shake off that guilty feeling.

This entire week has been an all out assault on my mind. At first there was a barrage of memories of my wife and I during our happier years, then came the slow descent into our more unpleasant ones. We honestly did have a good life ahead of us, but it seems like I am more in love with the memories and not the woman who I come home to every night. During these thoughts, Sophia had found her place in my mind. Her scarlet lipstick would sometimes come into my daydreams, or her small toned legs, or her um- assets, but before those could fully have an imprint, my wife came back into the picture.

It’s nearing the weekend and those thoughts have subsided. The only time my mind will wander is when it wants to see Sophia. I come home and feel oddly relieved. I have not once toyed with the band on my finger or anxiously thought of the days to come. I am even able to fall asleep soundly.

Saturday rears its ugly head and the ghost of anxiety haunts me. I can’t focus on my work, for all I can think about is going to the Nighthawk’s cafe later today. I frantically spin my wedding band around my finger, leaving the skin red and blistering. I examine the many dots on the plaster ceiling to keep my anxious brain focused on something. The clock slowly ticks on until the hands hit 5 o’clock, signaling the end of my shift.

I almost run out of the building. I scurry down the busy streets of Brooklyn to make my way to that little cafe on 32nd avenue. I see Sophia smiling at me, sitting next to my usual seat at the bar. She pats her hand down on the stool and signals the bartender for drinks.

“Hello Sophia.”

“Hello Dante, I’ve already ordered our drinks, it’s terrible isn’t it? A lady like me ordering drinks for a man. Darling, you need to step it up.”

“I’m sorry Sophia, but I feel that a man orderin’ drinks for a woman means he has some things in mind for later.”

“Well I guess you’re callin’ me a man then.” Her eyes roam over my body like she is a scientist, and I am a measly an insect under the microscope. “No ma’am I mean no harm to you.” She brushes her hand across my face and then rests it on my shoulder. I would not be surprised if she could hear the rapid beating of my heart and feel the boom of my pulse. I somehow manage to get us on a normal conversation and we ramble on for almost 3 hours. I don’t shy away when our hands casually brush together, or when she puts her hand on my leg. We get along so well; I feel almost as if I have known her for years.

Today is as systematic as ever. I sit at my desk for hours, look at report sheets, nothing odd has even crossed my mind. My work keeps dragging on, but I keep my head high because I know it will be over soon.

The Cafe comes into my view and Sophia is there. This time our drinks were already ordered.

“Hey Dante, come here, I want to talk to you.” I sit down on the stool and take a sip of my drink, my eyes never leaving her’s. “I want you to come over to my place.” As she says this, she rubs my knee, then trails her hand up my upper thigh. “I’m no sharecrop, but I have taken a likening to you, so, how ‘bout it?” The beads of sweat immediately start forming on my neck, my hands tremble, my answer came out instant and alien, “Okay Sophia.”

The walk to Sophia’s house is agonizingly slow, but it is worth it. She points out buildings while telling me their history, and she will smile at all the passersby like she has known them all her life. Since she isn’t in a hurry, I am relieved; Maybe we are just going to relax and have some drinks. I guess my naivety is really getting to me.

Her apartment is very quaint. It is decorated like it belongs to a sixty year old, not a woman in her twenties. The couch looks old and tacky, there are assorted knick-knacks on shelves, and there is a cat coo-coo clock on the wall, it is actually kind of cute. We went straight into her bedroom, now that, that looked like something belong to a twenty something. There are maroon silk blankets on crisp white sheets, with two fluffed up pillows on the inviting bed. The curtains are drawn, and papers are strewn about on a desk. The thing that really interested me, was the jewelery box on the dresser. It had a multitude of gold wedding bands displayed neatly; They all seemed very expensive.

“What’s that?” I gesture to the box, and she smiles thoughtfully for a moment.

“That is my collection of wedding rings.”

“Whered’ya get them from?” She ignores my question while looking sombre for a moment, but she snaps out of it soon after. “I began- collecting them when I was about 15. It was the year after my parents separated.” She sits down on the bed with a soft foof, and looks up at me. “He cheated on her, and soon after I became interested in marriage. I wanted something that my parents didn’t have. So I started to collect these rings.” She gazes down at her wedding finger and rubs the skin. “ I’ve been looking for a nice man…” Her eyes darken while she saunters over to me. “And you seem like a nice enough one.”

She caresses my cheek then leans forward and our lips touch. Her lips are soft like rose petals and she tastes like honey and vintage perfume. The kiss is short and sultry. She smiles wryly and gives me a quick peck on the cheek before walking off to her closet. She grabs some clothes from her dresser and heads for the door.“I’ll be right back.Wait for me please.” And with a wink, she leaves me alone in her room.

I sit down on the bed and look down at my left hand, feeling the empty space on my ring finger. I don’t feel guilty anymore, my wife and I are not meant for eachother, Sophia and I are. Things happen for a reason and fate has led me to her. I know Sophia will judge me for not telling her I am married, but I feel like our feelings for eachother can overrule that.

The door opens, and Sophia waltzes in wearing a silk robe. It caresses her figure perfectly and just looking at her makes my voice get caught in my throat. She has her hands behind her back and I am immediately curious.

“What’s behind your back?”

“It’s a surprise.” He eyes darken; Her voices is the consistency of honey. “Just close your eyes; I don’t want you to spoil this.” I feel a sudden dip in the bed and the rustling of sheets. “You can open your eyes now. I’m behind you, so I know you won’t see it.”

I open my eyes and stare at the jewelry box. My hands were shaking with anticipation. Then I felt it. The cold metal plunges into my back. My blood cascades down my back like wet paint on a canvas. My fear paralyzes me, squeezing my throat shut. I can only manage one gasping word “Why?”

“Because…You’re married.”