The Affair

Chapter 22.1 - Pain

Friday, July 22, 2022, 7:10pm

A storm blows in as he turns into his neighborhood. The rain turns heavy, coating his windshield faster than the blades can clear it. His garage door lifts as he pulls into the driveway, revealing two empty spaces. He parks and kills the engine.

He enters the house, unsure of what to expect. There's a quiet about it, as if the walls shun him, withholding secrets about what happened. He stands there in the threshold of the garage and the living room. He listens, praying for noise but only getting the downpour outside.

It's dark in the house. Jolts of lightning flash through the curtains, taking snapshots of the lonely home. The thunder rolls as he flips the light switch. He sighs, stepping over to the wood cabinet along the inner wall. The door squeaks as it swings open, revealing his collection of liquor and mixers. From the back he pulls his choice—whiskey—something expensive.

The cork top pops with a dull hum. He sets out a tall shot glass, tipping the bottle and letting the amber liquid fill it to the brim. Without a second wasted, he downs it in a single throw.

"Fuck today..." he mutters, grunting as the alcohol bites.

Bottle in hand he rounds the corner, making his way up the stairs. His satchel sways against his hip with each step, boot-heels clicking against the hardwood under him. It's darker at the top, but there's a bubble of light coming from his bedroom. June's lamp, still on and bathing the room in an orange wash.

He enters, searching for anything off. Ahead, the closet door is open. Stepping inside, he flips the light switch, revealing the chaos. Button-up shirts ripped and half-hung on hangers, his blazers crumpled on the floor, his shoes missing from their cubbyholes along the wall, tossed across the floor instead. At the other end, June's designer heels remain in perfect order, and her dresses are still organized and neat.

Above is a shelf, usually stowing three travel suitcases. But now only one remains. It's that sight that triggers him—the absence of their luggage, with no indication on where they went or how long they'd be away.

The reality curdles in his gut. Flashbacks of earlier replay in his mind. June's vicious strike across Fallon's face, the thump as Fallon hit the floor, the betrayal in June's eyes as she gave him that final look.

What now?

Divorce.

"Fuck!" he yelps, slamming the closet door shut.

He leaves, rushing down the stairs feeling sick. In the back corner of the house is his study—a quiet, reclusive space where he spends many late hours. He flips the light switches along his way, giving some life to the empty home. A set of French doors opens to his study.

It's dark in the room, but he finds the edge of his desk, then the skinny chain of his lamp. One gentle pull creates a bubble of orange light. Mahogany greets him. A grand bookshelf is built into the left wall, books of all sizes running along the lengths, a few model cars thrown in just because he likes them. He has a sturdy desk, with dual monitors and two picture frames.

The space is quiet—but more importantly, it's his.

He tosses his satchel onto a leather couch along the eastern wall, then sits. Lightning flashes at his back, projecting pale horizontal lines through the window shudders. Thunder grumbles, more distant than before, now just a gentle groan under the patter of rain.