Chapter 1: The Kitchen Floor
The tile was cold through the knees of David’s jeans. A deep, familiar ache was settling into the joints, the kind he got from hours under a sink. He didn’t shift. His eyes were fixed on the pattern of grout between the squares, his breathing shallow. The taste was still there, metallic and alien, coating his tongue and the back of his throat. He swallowed, and it was a deliberate, conscious act.
Above him, Leo zipped his fly. The sound was cheap and final, like tearing Velcro.
“There you go, buddy,” Leo said. His voice was the same one he used when they’d watch a game and David would fetch another beer. Easy. Casual. He clapped a heavy hand on David’s shoulder, gave a single, firm squeeze, then walked to the sink.
He ran the water, rinsed his hands, and grabbed a paper towel from the roll Kathryn kept on the counter. He didn’t look at David. He looked at Kathryn, leaning against the stove, her arms crossed tight over her apron.
“Sauce needs a pinch more salt, Kath,” Leo said, crumpling the towel and tossing it toward the bin. It missed.
David finally lifted his head. The fluorescent light was a physical weight. It gleamed off the stainless steel vent hood, off the pot of marinara simmering on the back burner, off the faint, sticky sheen on his own chin. He looked at Kathryn. Her face was pale, her lips a tight, pressed line. She wasn’t looking at Leo. She was looking at him, at the evidence on him, and her eyes held nothing he recognized. Not anger. Not lust. A kind of weary, hollowed-out distance.
That distance terrified him. It was a chasm, and he was on the wrong side of it.
He scrambled forward on his knees, the denim scraping loud on the tile. He reached for her, but didn’t touch, his hands hovering near her thighs.
“Kathryn,” he said, and his voice was a rasp, raw from the effort. “Please.”
She didn’t move.
“Look,” he whispered, tilting his face up. “Look what I did. For you. I did that for you. Can you taste it?” He licked his lips, a frantic, dog-like gesture. “I can still taste him. I want you to taste him on me. I want you to kiss me and know.”
“David,” she said. It was flat. A name, not a caress.
“He’s right here,” David pleaded, his words tumbling out faster, fueled by a panic that was sharper than any arousal. He jerked his head toward Leo, who was now watching with a faint, bored curiosity, like a man channel-surfing. “He’s hard. I know he is. I felt it. He wants you. He always has. Since we were kids. Please, let him. Let him have you. Right here. On the counter. Let me watch. Let me help.”
He was babbling now, his hands finally clutching at the hem of her apron, twisting the fabric. “I’ll hold your hand. I’ll get the lube. I’ll clean you up after. I’ll make you breakfast. I’ll do anything. Just let him fuck you. Let him fuck you while I taste you. Please, Kathryn. I need to see it. I need to know you’re getting what you need. I’m nothing. I’m just your husband. He’s a real man. Look at him. Please. Please, I’m begging you.”
His forehead pressed against her hip bone. He was shaking. The taste of Leo was a curse and a sacrament in his mouth. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to swallow forever.
Kathryn’s hand came down. Not to stroke his hair, not to grant forgiveness. She placed her fingertips under his chin and pushed his head back, forcing him to look up at her. Her gaze traveled from his wet, desperate eyes, down to his shining chin, and back up.
“You’re pathetic,” she said, quietly. The words didn’t crackle with anger. They were simply an observation, cold and clinical as a knife on steel.
Then she untied her apron. She pulled the strings slowly, deliberately, let the stained fabric fall to the floor between them. She stepped over it, and over David, her sneaker missing his hand by an inch.
“I’m going to bed,” she said to the room, to neither of them in particular. “Leo, see yourself out.”
She walked from the kitchen. The swing door sighed shut behind her, cutting