Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The chill of her car’s leather seat seeped through her chef’s pants. Kathryn gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles pale in the dashboard glow. She stared at the darkened restaurant facade, the ‘CLOSED’ sign swinging slightly in the night breeze. Her lips felt swollen.Different.
She could still smell him on her skin—a faint trace of smoked paprika and sweat beneath the kitchen’s universal grease. She rolled down the window, let the cold air scour her face.
What had she done?
The question looped, sterile and pointless. The act was complete. It existed now in the world, a tangible thing. The weight of it settled in her stomach, a heavy, living stone.
The drive home was a tunnel. Streetlights streaked past, meaningless. She mechanically turned into her neighborhood, past the identical, sleeping houses. Her own was dark except for the porch light David always left on. A beacon for the guilty.
She sat in the driveway for five minutes, watching the house. A shadow moved past the kitchen window. David was still up.
She rehearsed expressions in the rearview mirror. Tired. Just tired. It was a busy shift. She settled on a soft smile, but it looked like a grimace.
Inside, the house was quiet. The TV was off. She dropped her keys into the bowl on the entry table, the clatter obscenely loud.
“Hey.” David emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel over his shoulder. He’d been cleaning. “Late one.”
“Inventory,” she said, the lie smooth and immediate. “Chef wanted everything counted after close.” She walked to the fridge, needing the barrier. “Kids down?”
David nodded, taking her in his arms, his hands exploring her body and cupping her. She knew where this would lead and it often wouldn't last long unfortunately.
"Can you give me a blowjob, Kat?" David asked.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sterile and unforgiving. Kathryn’s lips felt swollen, traitorous. She pressed the back of her hand against them, as if she could erase the pressure, the taste. The kitchen, usually a place of such concrete purpose, now seemed like a stage after the play had ended, empty and waiting for the next performance. Her reflection warped back at her from the stainless steel fridge, a woman she wasn’t sure she recognized.
She moved on autopilot. Wiped down her station until it gleamed. Hung her apron on its hook with a finality that felt like a lie.