29. Rico
Rico
Celibacy-induced insanity. That’s the only logical explanation for why I let myself screw my wife on the dining room table and then lost my mind over it.
Two orgasms in under ten minutes—unquestionably the best of my life—and now I’m hiding as if she’s patient zero in a viral outbreak. Fully quarantined. No contact. Minimal eye exposure.
I show up for our scheduled dinners like a corporate drone punching a timecard, offering grunts and nods like some sort of domesticated caveman.
And then there are those ridiculous notes I leave her—the Post-Its she pretends not to wait for but absolutely reads.
Random facts. Useless information, I dig out of the dusty corners of my brain.
Genuine enough to avoid violating the contract, but empty enough to mean nothing.
I should probably feel bad for skirting the terms of what’s supposed to pass as a marriage, but guilt is a luxury for people who have emotions left to spend. My accounts are overdrawn.
She thinks those notes will create intimacy, stacking up little bricks to build some fairytale house where we hold hands and smile over pancakes.
As if the broken shards of what I am—razor-edged, calcified pieces—could ever form anything functional, let alone a marriage.
Hope is one hell of a drug, and I’m not about to be her supplier.
So I stick to the routine.
Sleep after her.
Leave before she wakes.
Minimal exposure. I’m radioactive and she’s got a Geiger counter strapped to her chest, and it's telling us both to stay away—I'm the only one that happens to listen.
The less she sees me, the faster she’ll understand this arrangement for what it is—a contract sealed with a pen, not a kiss.
And certainly not another round of me losing control inside her.
Because if my body so much as thinks about her—those curves, her scent, that damn mouth—I’ll break. And I can’t afford to break.
Dinner is a masterclass in endurance. A game of mental chess where she moves closer, and I pretend not to notice.
My fists stay balled in my lap under the table, knuckles raw from the nights I spend pounding away at the bag in the gym, trying to sweat her out of my system.
I sit there staring at my plate, laser-focused on not looking at her, even though every molecule of me is hyper-aware of the fact that if I turn my head even slightly, I’ll be treated to a front-row seat to temptation.
My house—the last place I could retreat, the one slice of my world I could control—has been overrun. My sanctuary of glass, steel, and order? Gone.
Now when I step out of my room, I’m greeted by a blinding assault of sunlight. Every fucking blind thrown open like we’re welcoming in the Renaissance. Who does that? Vampires avoid the sun for a reason. I used to thrive in shadows. Now I live in a Zen coach's wet dream.
She’s invaded.
There are decorative tins on the kitchen counters. Tins. Like we live in a cottage where we forage for herbs. The couch? Once a beautifully minimalistic piece of art—now drowning in a colony of throw pillows multiplying like they’re on a fertility treatment. Ironic, considering my wife isn't.
And then there are the flowers. Fresh, bright, offensive flowers. Sitting on my counter like a smug reminder of how fragile everything is. A daily, wilting metaphor for wasted effort—life cut short for beauty that won’t last.
But the crown jewel? The clock.
The fucking clock.
It’s obscenely large and ticking loud enough to drill into my skull. Every second, a reminder that time is marching on and I’m stuck here in this curated version of hell.
What kind of person needs a clock that big? What’s she tracking—phases of the moon? My slow descent into madness? If it doubled as a mirror, at least I could check to see if I looked as exhausted as I feel. But no, it’s strategically placed so that all I see is time—taunting me.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Counting down to when I finally snap—or when she packs up her floral arrangements and throw pillows and leave me in peace. Whichever comes first.
But if she thinks I’m going to give her what she wants—emotion, connection, something real—she’s more delusional than I gave her credit for.
She may have stolen my house, but she’s not getting anything else.
At least my office remains untouched. A fortress of solitude, still blessedly free from her honeysuckle-scented tyranny. Small mercies, considering the rest of this house looks like Martha Stewart and Joanna Gaines had a decorating war—and both won.
Avoiding her should be easy. Used to be.
Back before we were nothing but a signature on paper and a mutual understanding to stay the hell out of each other’s way.
Before I put my hands on her. Before I lost every ounce of control on that dining room table like some desperate man who didn’t know better. I should’ve known better.
But apparently, my dick didn’t get that memo. No, it stands at attention every time she walks into a room, like she’s the commander-in-chief of my downfall.
I used to manage this shit. Used to schedule sex the way I schedule board meetings—efficient, controlled, forgettable.
Now? I’m jerking off in the shower like a teenage boy with a hidden stash of Playboys.
Which, for the record, I never did as a teenager because I wasn’t that pitiful.
But here I am. Thirty-seven and I can’t take a five-minute shower without turning it into a full-blown session, complete with self-loathing and questions like, “When did you become this guy?”
And the worst part? She’s not even trying. This isn’t some calculated seduction designed to screw with my head. No. She just exists. And her mere existence is ruining my life.
Okay, maybe that’s extreme.
Or maybe this entire situation is extreme.
Ignoring her texts is easy enough—simple, mechanical.
Pretend I’m too busy, which isn’t even a lie.
But avoiding her in my house? That takes strategy.
Precision. Like a tactical operation where the enemy is a five-foot-something woman with soft curves and tits I want in my mouth. Fuck, no I don't. But I do.
She probably thinks I don’t care where she goes or what she does.
And she’d be right—I don’t. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But the truth? I know exactly when she comes and goes.
Security system pings every time she leaves.
Every time she returns. I don’t need her to check in or tell me where she is.
I have technology for that. Cameras. Notifications.
Maybe a little tracking app on her phone—not that she knows about that.
Effortless surveillance.
Just how I like my relationships—distant, efficient, and requiring zero emotional labor.
And yet… she keeps stealing from me. My time. My peace. My sanity.
Tonight, though? Cooking night at Mama’s.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn, but tonight?
Tonight, I’m grateful. It means my petty thief won’t be home, hovering in the kitchen, cooking meals that taste too damn good for how much I want to hate them.
Meals she serves with that smile—half sunshine, half rebellion—that makes me want to punch or better yet, fuck her through the drywall.
So, I stretch out on the sofa, reclaiming what little territory I have left, ignoring the offensively large, fake potted plant she installed in the corner like a warning shot across my bow. Apparently, it’s supposed to “add warmth” to the room. Right.
If warmth feels like suffocation.
What used to be a temple to simplicity—sharp lines, dark leather, glass and steel—now looks like a HomeGoods catalog exploded.
Throw pillows breeding like rabbits on the couch.
Soft blankets draped over every available surface, as if I’m going to wake up one day and decide I need to be cozy.
And candles. So many fucking candles. Ones that smell like “Autumn’s Whisper” or “Harvest Dreams”—which I’m assuming is code for “this house is no longer yours.”
I pop open a beer, lean back, and pull up the game on TV. And because I’m feeling especially spiteful? I order takeout. Greasy, artery-clogging, fry smell that will linger for days kind of takeout.
Because if I’m going to live in a Pinterest nightmare, I’m going to at least eat like a man.
Her voice drifts through my head. An uninvited ghost. “Why order delivery when I can cook?” Like I’d just suggested eating roadkill.
Because I want to. Because I don’t feel like washing her twelve-piece cookware set afterward. Because sometimes, a man just wants to sit on his couch, eat something that could kill him, and not negotiate over kale versus spinach or what garnish would “really make the flavors pop.”
But sure, let’s pretend for a second that this is normal.
That she’s not taking over my house, my mind, and every inch of my willpower with her soft smiles and bright eyes.
Let her think she’s winning.
I take a long pull from my beer and stare at the screen, willing the noise to drown out the fact that the second she walks back through that door, my body will betray me all over again.
Because the truth is, she’s already stolen more than I’ll ever admit.
And thieves?
They give nothing back.
Not that peace exists anymore, anyway.
Between my wife’s incessant humming like she’s starring in a cooking show, the unrelenting sunshine punching through every open blind, and the hacker at work treating my system like it’s his personal playground, I’m a live wire just waiting for something to ignite.
And this hacker? He’s not just poking around like some amateur on a Red Bull binge.
No, this guy is living in my system. Feet up, shoes on the coffee table, probably helping himself to my virtual whiskey.
Either he’s a savant-level genius, or he’s smarter than me.
Neither option does much for my ego—or the growing rage that simmers just below my carefully polished surface.