Meera

---

Every. Single. Time.

---

Rohit's fingers are inside me—two of them, curling up exactly right while his thumb works my clit in slow circles. He's watching my face the way he always does, looking for the signs he's learned over eight years. I give them to him. Part my lips. Let my eyes go half-closed. Arch my back just enough.

"There you go," he murmurs in Tamil, and pushes deeper.

I'm not thinking about his fingers.

I'm thinking about yours. White fingers, pale against my dark skin. I'm thinking about whether you'd be this careful, this methodical, or whether you'd just take what you wanted. Whether you'd care that I'm wet because I've been imagining this since I saw you at the gym this morning, when you were doing shoulder presses and I was on the leg press machine with my thick thighs spread, watching you in the mirror.

Rohit pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and I make a small sound of protest that I know he'll interpret correctly. He grins—pleased with himself, always so pleased when he thinks he's driving me crazy—and positions himself between my legs. His hands grip my hips. Brown fingers on brown skin.

I close my eyes and imagine white hands instead.

He pushes inside me in one smooth stroke and I gasp, right on cue, because that's what he needs to hear. And I am gasping, genuinely, because the feeling is good and my body responds even when my mind is somewhere else entirely. Even when I'm imagining it's you pushing into me. Your white cock instead of his brown one. Your pale body over mine instead of his familiar weight.

"Meera," he breathes against my neck, and starts to fuck me properly.

I wrap my legs around him—thick thighs, the ones his mother evaluates every family dinner like she's calculating grandchildren—and dig my nails into his shoulders. My small hands with their gold wedding band. The mangalsutra between my breasts swings with each thrust, the black and gold beads he tied around my neck eight years ago, and I imagine you ripping it off. I imagine you not caring what it means, what I am, what I'm supposed to be.

"Harder," I tell him in Tamil, and he complies immediately, gripping my wide hips tighter, fingers pressing into soft flesh.

I imagine they're your fingers. Your white hands leaving marks on my dark skin.

My long black hair is spread across the pillow beneath me, and when Rohit fists a hand in it—gently, always so careful not to pull too hard—I imagine it's you who's grabbed it. You who'd use it to control me, to pull my head back, to make me take it.

"God, you're so wet," Rohit says, awed, like he can't believe his luck.

I am wet. I've been wet since 6:47 this morning when I "happened" to arrive at the gym at the exact time I knew you'd be there. Since I did hip thrusts in those tight black leggings and wondered if you noticed. Since I bent over to tie my shoe and felt your eyes maybe, possibly, potentially on my ass.

"Don't stop," I gasp, and he doesn't, he never does, he's thorough and attentive and genuinely trying to make me feel good, and I'm such a piece of shit because I'm fucking my husband while thinking about you.

Your face. Your hands. Your white cock inside me instead of his. The contrast of your pale skin against my deep brown body. Whether you'd want me to keep the bindi on. Whether you'd care that the mangalsutra marks me as someone else's. Whether that would make it hotter.

I'm close. Not because of what Rohit's doing—though he's doing it well, hitting the right spot, the right rhythm, his thumb finding my clit again—but because I've been building this fantasy in my head all day. All week. For months now.

"Come for me," Rohit says against my ear, and I do, because my body has learned to respond to him even when my mind is picturing you. I come hard, my full thighs shaking, my wide hips bucking up against him, my nails actually breaking skin on his shoulders, and I'm imagining it's you making me fall apart. You who's fucking me so good I forget every rule I was raised with.

Rohit follows a moment later, pushing deep and spilling inside me with a groan, and even that—even the feeling of his cum filling me—I'm converting into fantasy fuel. Imagining it's yours instead. Imagining you marking me from the inside.

He collapses on top of me, breathing hard, satisfied.

"God," he says after a moment. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but I'm not complaining."

You. You've gotten into me.

"Mmm," I murmur, noncommittal, and stroke his back with my small hands while his softening cock is still inside me and I can feel his cum starting to leak out.

He kisses my neck, my shoulder, pulls out carefully and rolls onto his side.

"Love you," he says, already drowsy, his hand resting possessively on my hip.

"Love you too," I say automatically, and it's not even a lie, exactly. I do love him. He's a good husband. A good man. I have absolutely no reason to be doing this.

Three minutes later his breathing has changed, deepened. He's asleep.

I wait another minute to be sure.

Then I reach for my phone on the nightstand, my gold wedding band catching the dim light from the screen. My hair is still mussed from his hands. My thighs are sticky. I can feel his cum leaking out of me onto the sheets, warm and wet between my legs. The mangalsutra is a cool weight between my breasts.

My hands are shaking slightly when I open our message thread—the one that's mostly me sending you things and you responding with a word or two, if that, because we barely know each other and you have no idea what you've become in my head.

I type: You up?

Delete it. Too obvious.

I type: Can't sleep.

Delete it. Too needy.

I stare at the screen, my small fingers hovering over the keyboard, my husband's cum literally still inside me, his hand on my hip, his chest rising and falling in sleep next to me.

Finally I just type: Hey.

---

Sunday Lunch

---

I'm making rotis in Rohit's mother's kitchen, rolling dough into perfect circles on the marble counter while she supervises. My dupatta is draped over my shoulder, hair in a neat braid, small red bindi centered between my eyebrows. I look exactly like what I'm supposed to be: the good Tamil daughter-in-law who knows her place.

"Meera, make them a little thinner," Rohit's mother says in Gujarati, and I nod, smile, adjust my technique immediately.

"Yes, Ba."

My phone is tucked into the folds of my dupatta. I can feel it against my hip, warm and waiting.

Rohit's aunt is at the table behind us, discussing her friend's daughter's engagement. The girl is twenty-three, just finished her master's, marrying a doctor from a good family. Everyone is very pleased. I make appropriate listening sounds while I work.

"And you, Meera?" Rohit's mother asks, her eyes on my hands as I roll. "When will you and Rohit give me good news?"

She's asking about grandchildren. She always asks about grandchildren. Her eyes flick to my hips, my chest, like she's calculating capacity.

"We're trying, Ba," I say, which is true. We are trying. Or rather, Rohit is trying. I'm just there in body while my mind is somewhere else entirely. With someone else entirely.

I was at the gym yesterday morning. Saturday, 6:47 AM. You were there, doing back exercises. I watched you do pull-ups in the mirror while I was on the hip abductor machine, my thick thighs spreading wide, wondering if you noticed.

"You should eat more ghee," the aunt contributes helpfully. "Good for fertility."

"Yes, Auntie."

I flip the roti onto the tawa, watch it bubble and brown. My small hands move automatically—I've made thousands of rotis. I could do this in my sleep. Which is good, because my mind isn't here at all.

It's replaying the moment when you walked past me to get to the water fountain. Close enough that I could smell your sweat, see the dampness on your shirt. You said "excuse me" and I said "no problem" and it was nothing, absolutely nothing, just two people being polite in a shared space.

I've replayed it forty times since yesterday.

"Rohit tells me you've been going to the gym very regularly," his mother says, and something in her tone makes me look up.

Does she know? Can she tell? Can she see it on my face?

"Just trying to stay healthy, Ba," I say, voice steady, smile in place.

"Good, good. Healthy body, healthy baby." She pats my shoulder approvingly.

I flip another roti. The kitchen is warm, fragrant with spices and ghee. I'm the perfect daughter-in-law. Modest clothes, long braid, gold mangalsutra visible against my dark skin, small hands making perfect rotis, saying yes to everything.

And my phone is burning a hole against my hip.

Rohit's aunt launches into a story about someone's son who married outside the community—a white girl, American, can you imagine—and how difficult it's been for everyone. How the girl doesn't understand their customs, doesn't cook properly, wears inappropriate clothes.

I make sympathetic noises. I flip rotis. I imagine your white hands on my dark skin and feel like I might actually lose my mind.

Twenty minutes later, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Lock the door. Pull out my phone with shaking hands that smell like ghee and flour.

I open our message thread. My last text was three days ago—some innocuous question you answered with two words.

I type: Thinking about Tuesday.

Delete it. Too obvious.

I type: Hope you have a good weekend.

Delete it. Too generic.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Perfect bindi. Perfect braid. Perfect performance. Rohit's mother's rotis are better than mine but she tells everyone I'm learning well. I'm twenty minutes away from sitting down to lunch with his entire family, smiling and serving and being evaluated.

I type: Thinking about Tuesday

And send it before I can delete it again.

---

Running Late

---

We're already running late for his parents' anniversary dinner and Rohit is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to knot his tie, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. Work was hell for him this week. His mother called twice today with venue questions. He's stressed.

I know what will help.

I walk up behind him, smooth my hands down his chest. He's already dressed—nice slacks, button-down, the tie half-done.

"We have twenty minutes," he says, but he's already relaxing into my touch.

"I know."

I turn him around, press him back against the counter, and drop to my knees.

"Meera, we don't have time—"

I'm already unzipping him.

This is part of being a good wife. Anticipating needs. Providing relief. I learned this early—not from anyone teaching me, just from understanding that marriage is work and this is part of the work.

I take him in my mouth and he groans, his hand coming to rest on my head, fingers threading through my braided hair carefully so he doesn't mess it up. We have a dinner to get to. I'm already dressed too—deep blue salwar kameez, gold jewelry, bindi in place, looking exactly like the daughter-in-law his parents expect.

He's already hard. It doesn't take much. Eight years of marriage means I know exactly what he likes.

I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about whether you'd be this easy to please. Whether you'd thread your fingers through my hair this gently or whether you'd fist it, use it, pull my head down and make me take it. Whether you'd care that my bindi might smudge, that my carefully applied lipstick would be ruined, that we're supposed to be somewhere in twenty minutes.

Rohit's breathing gets heavier. His hips start to move slightly, careful, controlled, always so controlled.

"God, Meera—"

I hollow my cheeks, take him deeper, and think about your white cock instead of his brown one. Think about the contrast. Think about whether your cum would taste different.

It doesn't take long. Three minutes, maybe four. He's stressed and I'm good at this and he comes with a quiet groan, his hand tightening in my hair, his release flooding my mouth.

I swallow automatically. Good wives swallow.

He helps me up carefully, kisses my forehead—not my mouth, he never does right after, too intimate somehow—and tucks himself back in.

"Thank you," he says, genuine gratitude in his voice. He's already less tense. Mission accomplished.

"Of course."

He goes back to his tie. I go to the bedroom to grab my purse, check my bindi in the mirror. It's slightly smudged at one edge. I fix it with a fingertip.

The taste of his cum is still in my mouth.

I pull out my phone.

Rohit is in the bathroom, washing his hands, humming something. We have fifteen minutes now. His mother will forgive us if we're a few minutes late. She always does.

I type with my small hands, gold wedding band catching the light:

I keep thinking about this morning at the gym. The way you looked at me when I was doing hip thrusts. Did you notice? Or am I making that up?

Send.

The taste of my husband's cum is still on my tongue when I slip my phone back into my purse, touch up my lipstick, and call out:

"Ready when you are!"

---

What Do White Girls Like?

---

Dal is simmering on the stove, the pressure cooker hissing with rice. I'm chopping okra at the counter, my movements automatic after years of this exact routine. Rohit will be home in forty minutes. I've already set out his favorite pickle—the one his mother made, properly spiced, better than anything I could make even after eight years of trying.

My phone is propped against the spice rack where I can see it.

The kitchen smells like mustard seeds and curry leaves. I'm wearing an old salwar kameez, comfortable, stained from cooking. My hair is in a braid down my back. No bindi—I don't wear it at home usually, just for going out or when his parents visit. The mangalsutra rests against my chest, familiar weight.

I add cumin to the tadka, watch it sizzle and pop.

You were at the gym this morning. Tuesday, 6:47 AM. I saw you doing shoulder presses. You were wearing a grey t-shirt. At one point you looked over in my direction—I'm pretty sure you looked over—and I was doing glute bridges on the mat, my hips raised, my thick thighs engaged, and I wonder if you noticed.

I've been thinking about it all day.

Actually, I've been thinking about something specific. There was a blonde girl talking to you by the water fountain. Tall, maybe 5'8", long legs, tight workout clothes. She laughed at something you said. You smiled back.

I noticed what she was wearing. What she looked like. How she moved.

I stir the dal, check the rice.

I've been cataloguing the women I see you interact with. Not consciously at first, but now I'm doing it deliberately. What they wear. How they talk to you. What gets your attention.

Most of them are white.

Obviously.

I'm trying to figure out what works. What gets a response. What you actually want versus what I'm imagining you want.

My mother-in-law called earlier about a recipe. I took notes. Yes, Ba. Of course, Ba.

The dal needs ten more minutes. Rohit won't be home for thirty-five minutes.

I pick up my phone with my small hands, gold wedding band visible. Open our message thread. My last message was two days ago. You responded with one word.

I type: What do white girls like?

And send it before I can think about it too much.

---

Time Alone

---

Rohit is at work. Won't be home until six. I finished my own work an hour ago—closed my laptop, sent the final emails, logged off for the day.

I should be doing laundry. His mother is coming for dinner tomorrow and I need to make sure the guest room is ready. There are vegetables to prep. The bathroom needs cleaning.

Instead I'm in our bedroom, door locked even though I'm alone in the apartment, curtains drawn, lying on top of the covers in just my bra and underwear.

My phone is next to me on the bed.

I've been thinking about you all day. Can't stop. Won't stop. It's gotten worse lately—the intrusive thoughts, the compulsion, the way every mundane task gets interrupted by fantasies I have no right to be having.

My hand slides down my stomach, under my underwear.

I'm already wet. Have been for hours. I touch myself the way I always do when I'm alone—two fingers, circling my clit slowly at first. My other hand goes to my breast, squeezing through the thin fabric of my bra. The mangalsutra is cool between my breasts. I'm still wearing it. I always wear it.

I close my eyes and imagine it's your hand instead of mine. Your fingers on my dark skin, between my legs. I imagine you wouldn't be careful. Wouldn't be methodical. Would just take what you wanted.

My hips start moving, pushing against my own hand. My thick thighs fall open wider. My breathing gets heavier.

Good wives don't do this. Good Tamil girls don't lie in bed in the middle of the afternoon masturbating to thoughts of men they barely know.

I don't care.

My fingers move faster. I'm close already, have been building toward this all day. I imagine your weight on top of me. Your body against mine. Whether you'd talk to me while you fucked me or stay quiet. Whether you'd want me to be quiet or want to hear me beg.

I imagine you'd make me beg.

I'm right on the edge, my body tense, my small hand working between my legs, my gold wedding band flashing in the dim light, and I reach for my phone with my other hand.

I open our message thread with shaking fingers while my other hand keeps moving.

I type: I'm touching myself right now thinking about you

Send it.

My hand doesn't stop. I'm too far gone to stop.

I type: Does that get you hard?

Q3 Review

I'm on a Zoom call with twelve other people discussing Q3 performance metrics. My camera is off—"internet issues," I said in the chat, apologetic emoji included. My microphone is muted. The VP of Sales is presenting a slideshow about conversion rates.

No one can see me.

I'm sitting at my home desk in a proper blouse and bra on top, underwear on bottom, my laptop angled so the camera would only catch my face and shoulders anyway. Professional from the chest up. My hair is in a neat bun. I'm taking notes in a document on my second monitor.

My phone is in my lap.

The VP is talking about Q4 projections now. Someone asks a question about client retention. I type a response in the chat—thoughtful, engaged, exactly what a senior marketing manager should contribute.

Then I go back to my phone.

I've been texting you for the last fifteen minutes while nodding along to budget discussions and strategic initiatives.

My fingers are shaking slightly as I type.

I keep thinking about what it would be like if you bent me over your kitchen counter

Send.

My salwar kameez pushed up around my waist, my hair in your fist, you just taking what you wanted

Send.

Someone on the call is asking me a direct question. I unmute quickly.

"I think we should prioritize the email campaign over social for Q4," I say, voice steady, professional. "The conversion data supports it."

Mute again.

I think about whether you'd keep the mangalsutra on or rip it off. Whether you'd want to see it swinging while you fucked me from behind

Send.

The VP nods approvingly at my contribution. Someone types "Great point Meera!" in the chat. I react with a thumbs up.

My hand goes back to my phone.

I want to know what you taste like. I want to get on my knees for you the way I do for my husband but actually MEAN it

Send.

I'm crossing a line. I know I'm crossing a line. These aren't vague implications anymore. This is explicit. This is me telling you exactly what I want in words that can't be misinterpreted.

I think about you pulling my braid while you fuck my mouth. Using it like a handle. Not being careful with me at all

Send.

Another question directed at me. I unmute.

"The analytics from last quarter show a 23% increase in mobile engagement," I say, glancing at my notes, my voice completely normal. "We should adjust the budget allocation accordingly."

Mute.

Would you care that I'm married? Would it make it hotter or would you not even think about it?

Send.

I think it would make it hotter for you. I think you'd like knowing you were fucking someone else's wife

Send.

---

Diwali Prep

---

I'm sitting on the floor of our living room surrounded by diyas—small clay oil lamps that need to be cleaned and filled before tomorrow night. Diwali is in two days. Rohit's entire family is coming. His mother, his father, his aunts and uncles and cousins. Twenty-three people total. I've been preparing for a week.

The house is spotless. I've made three different types of sweets. The rangoli design is planned out. My new saree is pressed and hanging in the closet—deep red silk with gold embroidery, the one his mother approved of when we went shopping together last month. Everything is perfect.

I'm supposed to be filling these diyas with oil. Instead I'm staring at my phone.

My hands smell like the sandalwood incense I burned earlier during the small puja I did this morning. My hair is in a braid. I'm wearing an old cotton salwar kameez. The mangalsutra rests against my chest. I look exactly like what I am: a good Hindu wife preparing for the festival of lights.

Rohit is at work, finishing up projects before the holiday. He'll be home in three hours. Then tomorrow his mother arrives to "help" which means supervising everything I've already done and redoing half of it her way. Then the day after that, the celebration. The performance.

I can't do this anymore.

No, that's not true. I can do this. I'm very good at this. I can smile and serve and wear my red saree and light the diyas and be the perfect daughter-in-law for twenty-three people. I can make this Diwali exactly what his mother expects. I can perform flawlessly.

But I can't stop thinking about you while I do it.

You were at the gym this morning. Saturday, 6:47 AM, like clockwork. I did an entire workout positioned where I could watch you. You were doing chest exercises. At one point you looked directly at me—not accidentally, not coincidentally, DIRECTLY at me—and I looked back and something passed between us. Or I imagined something passed between us. Or I wanted something to pass between us so badly that I invented it.

I don't know anymore.

I've been texting you increasingly explicit things for weeks now. Telling you what I think about, what I want, what I imagine. Sometimes you respond. Sometimes you don't. I have no idea if you're interested or disturbed or just being polite or not reading them at all.

I need to know.

The diyas sit in front of me, half-filled. The oil lamp I'm holding drips onto my hand. I set it down carefully on the newspaper I've spread out to protect the carpet.

Pick up my phone with my small hands, gold wedding band visible, fingers still smelling like sandalwood.

Type: I need to see you

Stare at it.

This is different. This isn't fantasy. This isn't me masturbating in my bedroom or texting you filth while my husband sleeps. This is me asking for something real. Something that crosses from obsession into action.

I could delete it. Go back to filling diyas. Prepare for Diwali. Be the good Tamil wife who just has an embarrassing crush she'll never act on.

I hit send.

Type: Please

Send.

Type: I know this is crazy. I know we barely know each other. I know I'm married and this is wrong and I'm probably insane

Delete that. Too much.

Type: Tuesday morning. Coffee before the gym? Or after?

Send.

Type: I just need to talk to you. In person. Just once

Send.

I'm lying. I don't just need to talk. But I can pretend that's all this is. A conversation. Innocent. Just two people who see each other at the gym having coffee.

Type: Please

Send it again.

---

After

---

Rohit's hands are on my hips, gripping the way he always does, pulling me back against him as he fucks me from behind. My face is pressed into the pillow. My thick black braid hangs down my back. The mangalsutra swings between my breasts with each thrust.

This used to be enough. This used to work.

Now I know the difference.

Three days ago I met you for coffee. Tuesday morning, before the gym. We talked for twenty minutes about nothing—work, the weather, gym routines. Polite. Surface-level. And then we went back to your place and you fucked me against your kitchen counter exactly like I'd imagined.

Except it wasn't like I'd imagined.

It was better and worse and more real and I can't stop replaying it.

Rohit pushes deeper, his rhythm steady and familiar. He's good at this. He knows my body. Eight years of practice.

"You feel so good," he murmurs in Tamil, his voice rough with pleasure.

You didn't talk much. You just—took. Pushed my leggings down, bent me over, pulled my hair hard enough to make my eyes water. Used me. I came twice before you even got inside me.

Rohit's hand slides around to my clit, circling the way I taught him. Methodical. Careful. Making sure I come too because that's what good husbands do.

You didn't care if I came. You made me come anyway.

"Harder," I tell Rohit, and he complies, gripping my dark hips tighter, his brown fingers pressing into my flesh.

Your white hands left marks. I can still see them—faint bruises on my hips, my thighs, my wrists where you held me down. I've been wearing more modest clothes so Rohit won't notice. Long sleeves. High necklines.

He hasn't noticed.

Rohit is close now, his breathing ragged, his movements less controlled. He's going to come soon and then he'll make sure I come after, attentive to the end.

You came inside me. Didn't ask. Just did it. I was on top of you on your couch, your hands in my long black hair, and you pulled me down and held me there and filled me and I came so hard I thought I'd black out.

I had to shower twice before going home. Had to scrub your smell off my dark skin. Had to rebraid my hair, reapply my bindi, put the mangalsutra back on—I'd taken it off at your place, tucked it in my purse, couldn't stand the weight of it while you were inside me.

"Meera—" Rohit gasps, and comes, pushing deep, his fingers digging into my hips.

Not like yours. Not even close.

He pulls out carefully, helps me turn over, kisses me softly before his hand goes between my legs to finish what he started. His brown fingers on my dark skin. Gentle. Loving. Everything a husband should be.

I close my eyes and remember your white hands. Your mouth. The way you looked at me like you were claiming something that wasn't yours.

I come because my body knows how to respond to Rohit, but I'm thinking about you the entire time.

After, he pulls me close. His hand rests on my hip possessively. The same hip that has your fingerprint bruises hidden underneath my clothes.

"Love you," he murmurs, already drowsy.

"Love you too," I whisper automatically.

Ten minutes later he's asleep.

I wait five more to be sure.

Then I reach for my phone, my heart pounding. My thighs are sticky with my husband's cum. The mangalsutra is heavy between my breasts. I smell like sex and sandalwood from the incense I burned earlier.

My hands are shaking when I open our message thread.

Type: I can still feel you

Send.

Type: He just fucked me and all I could think about was how different you felt. How much harder you fucked me. How you didn't care about being careful

Send.

Type: When can I see you again

Send.

---

Navratri

---

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with the door locked, still in my puja clothes—deep purple silk saree, full gold jewelry, perfect braid with jasmine flowers woven through, bindi precisely applied, mangalsutra heavy and visible. Rohit's entire family is in the living room. We just finished the evening puja for Navratri. I led it. I did everything right.

And now I'm falling apart.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone. I've been shaking for twenty minutes, since Rohit's mother put her hand on my shoulder during the aarti and told me I'm such a good daughter-in-law, such a blessing to their family, surely Durga Ma will bless us with a child soon.

I smiled. Thanked her. Accepted her blessing. Touched her feet for her ashirwad.

Then I excused myself to the bathroom and now I can't breathe.

I fucked you four days ago. Tuesday afternoon, your apartment. I told Rohit I had a work meeting. I wore my usual work clothes. I took off the mangalsutra in your bathroom before you touched me. I let you bend me over your bed and fuck me until I couldn't think straight.

I went home after. Showered. Put the mangalsutra back on. Made dinner. Asked Rohit about his day. Smiled. Performed.

I'm so good at performing.

Yesterday you fucked me in your car in the gym parking lot. Early morning, before anyone else arrived. Quick and rough and I came with my hand over my mouth to stay quiet, your white fingers in my long black hair, pulling hard.

I went home after and did laundry. Called Rohit's mother to confirm today's puja timing. Bought the flowers. Cleaned the house. Set up the altar perfectly.

This morning I led the puja prayers. My voice was steady. My bindi was perfect. I wore the silk saree Rohit's mother gifted me. I lit the diyas. I sang the aarti. Twenty-three people in our living room and I was flawless.

And now I'm on the bathroom floor having a panic attack because I don't know who I am anymore.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Meera? Are you okay in there?" Rohit's voice, concerned.

"Yes!" I call back, my voice surprisingly normal. "Just feeling a little dizzy. I'll be out in a minute."

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine. Just need a moment."

His footsteps retreat.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Perfect wife. Perfect daughter-in-law. Perfect performance. The jasmine flowers in my dark hair. The deep purple silk. The gold jewelry. The red bindi. The mangalsutra that I took off for you yesterday morning and put back on before I came home.

My makeup is smudging. I'm crying and I didn't even realize it.

I should stop. I should end this. I should delete your number and never go to the gym at 6:45 AM again and just be the person everyone thinks I am.

I should.

I pick up my phone with shaking hands. My gold wedding band catches the light. My nails are painted red for the festival.

Type: I can't do this anymore

Stare at it.

Delete it.

Type: I'm at a family puja right now. Everyone thinks I'm perfect. Rohit's mother just blessed me. I'm wearing flowers in my hair and I can still feel where you bit my neck yesterday

Send.

Type: I'm falling apart. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor in my puja clothes crying and I can't stop thinking about you

Send.

Type: This is destroying me. I know it's destroying me. I can feel it happening

Send.

Sunday Morning

Sunlight is streaming through the bedroom window. It's 9 AM on a Sunday. Rohit is still in bed, scrolling through his phone, relaxed in a way he only is on weekends. I'm at the dresser, braiding my hair, watching him in the mirror.

"What do you want to do today?" he asks, looking up with a smile.

"Your mother wants us to come for lunch. I told her we'd be there by one."

"Of course she does," he says, affectionate exasperation in his voice. "What's she making?"

"Dhokla. And she wants me to bring that coconut chutney she likes."

I finish the braid, secure it with a hair tie. My hair is still damp from the shower we took together twenty minutes ago. The one where he washed my back and I washed his and we were easy and comfortable and domestic in the way eight years of marriage makes you.

Pick up my bindi from the dresser. Press the small red dot between my eyebrows, perfectly centered. Check my reflection. Adjust it slightly.

Rohit gets up, comes over, kisses the top of my head.

"I'll make the chutney," he offers. "You made dinner last night."

"You don't know how to make it the way she likes it."

"You can supervise."

He's being sweet. He's always sweet on Sunday mornings. Less stressed than weekdays. More present.

My phone is on the dresser. I pick it up while reaching for my mangalsutra with the other hand. Open our message thread. No new messages but I'm thinking about Tuesday anyway. Tuesday morning, 6:45 AM. I'll see you at the gym and then after, we'll go back to your place like we've been doing for three weeks now.

Fasten the mangalsutra around my neck. The familiar weight settles between my breasts. Gold and black beads. I've worn this every day for eight years.

Rohit is getting dressed—jeans, a casual shirt. Weekend clothes.

"What time do you want to leave?" he asks.

"Twelve-thirty? That gives me time to make the chutney and get ready."

"Sounds good."

He comes over again, wraps his arms around me from behind, rests his chin on my shoulder. We look at ourselves in the mirror together. His brown skin against mine. My long black braid down my back. The mangalsutra visible. We look exactly like what we are: a good Indian couple, comfortable with each other, stable.

"Love you," he says.

"Love you too," I say, and I mean it.

He kisses my neck and goes to make coffee.

I look at myself in the mirror one more time.

Perfect bindi. Perfect braid. Mangalsutra in place. I look exactly like I should: a good Tamil daughter-in-law about to go have lunch with her mother-in-law, who will ask about grandchildren again, who will evaluate my chutney and probably remake it her way, who will tell me I'm such a blessing to the family.

And on Tuesday morning I'll go to the gym at 6:45 AM, exactly like always. I'll wear those tight black leggings I know you notice. I'll do hip thrusts positioned where you can see. And then after, I'll follow you to your car or your apartment and let you fuck me however you want.

And then I'll come home and make Rohit's favorite dinner and call his mother and update the family WhatsApp group and perform my role flawlessly.

This is who I am now.

Not conflicted. Not guilty. Not breaking down.

Just... both.

I can be the perfect wife and the woman who fucks you. I can lead pujas and let you leave bruises on my dark skin that I hide under long sleeves. I can wear jasmine flowers in my hair for family festivals and text you explicit things while my husband sleeps next to me.

I can be both. I am both.

The compartmentalization isn't destroying me anymore. It's just how I function now.

I hear Rohit in the kitchen, the coffee maker starting up. I smell the familiar morning ritual. In three hours we'll be at his mother's house. I'll smile and serve and be exactly what they expect.

And on Tuesday I'll be exactly what you need.

And it's fine. It's all fine.

I'm fine.

I pick up my phone. Type: Tuesday. Can't wait to see you

Send.

Then I go to the kitchen to supervise the coconut chutney and kiss my husband good morning and be the perfect wife on a perfect Sunday morning.

Everything is exactly as it should be.