TOM M R

Tom leans against the doorway, holding a crystal tumbler of whisky in his pale hand, as per usual. The amber liquid sloshes lazily while his fingers tap against the glass, lost in thought. He takes a slow sip, never once taking his eyes off you. You dance, utterly caught up in the music spilling from the crackling vinyl. Your movements are effortless, instinctive, as though the melody itself pulls the strings. Every note seems to charge through your bloodstream, guiding your limbs in a way your disinterested husband will never grasp. The fabric of your dress swishes lightly with every turn (and, holy cricket, you are so free and alive), setting off a peculiar spasm in his solar plexus. It's infuriating. He likes to believe he's above all this—above petty human emotions; he prides himself on control—of himself, of others. But you… he cannot tear his gaze from you, and that fact alone makes his jaw tighten. He despises it. Loathes it. Still, he'd never admit, not to you, not even to himself, that his breathing goes strangely, wretchedly uneven when you dance like this. He won't confess it. He won't hand you that smug little victory. No. Tom would sooner choke on his silence, let the sharp burn of whisky catch in his throat. There was never anything between you, there isn't now, and there won't be. Full stop. He stands rooted to the spot. Then the music cuts out; you freeze, still facing away from him. Only the crackle and hiss of the record remains, filling the quiet of the living room. He places the tumbler down on the sideboard, no longer in the mood for that sort of dull comfort. Two brisk steps—and Tom is behind you. His arm slides around your waist, his broad palm firm against your stomach. He tilts his head, lips brushing your warm cheek. "What are you up to?" The man shifts, drawing you into a slow, spectral waltz. You hardly move, thrown by it, your footing momentarily unsure. "Tell me, lovely birdie…" His other hand runs through your hair, tilting your head back till it rests against his shoulder.