NOTE: READ THE TITLE CAREFULLY.
I wasn't sure what woke me up maybe the birds, maybe the rising heat but the moment my eyes opened, I felt it. That weird heaviness in my chest again. Not fear, exactly. Not even guilt. It was something darker, messier. A mix of awareness and tension sitting low in my stomach, crawling up my spine like an itch I couldn't scratch.
I lay there a while, staring at the ceiling fan as it squeaked in lazy circles. I hadn't forgotten. I was supposed to go help the old man today. And the thing was, I could've made an excuse. I could've told my husband I wasn't feeling well, or I had chores at home. But I didn't. I got up, changed, and tied my hair like it was just any other day. Only, it wasn't.
When wearing my clothes, my mind registered the way the fabric stretched across my hips, the slight curve of my ass visible when I bent or reached. I told myself it didn't matter. But I still looked at myself a second longer in the mirror before stepping out.
The air outside was still, thick with the kind of silence that hangs before a storm. As I neared his door, my steps slowed. My fingers trembled just a little when I rang the bell. When he opened the door, the smell of him hit me—cheap soap, musty clothes, and something sharp underneath. He smiled in that quiet, eerie way he always did. Eyes shameless. He never even tried to hide the way he looked at me.
"You came," he said, stepping aside, letting me in. His eyes swept over me like always—lingering where they had no business lingering.
I nodded, stepping inside, already regretting it but too proud to walk away. "I'll start with the kitchen," I said, and didn't wait for a reply.
The floor was dusty. The kitchen reeked of damp wood and old spices. I took a deep breath and got to work—sweeping, wiping, pretending I couldn't feel his eyes following every movement. Every time I bent over, I could feel him behind me, like a shadow pressed against my ass even if he wasn't touching. The air between us grew heavier with each passing minute. My throat dried up, and yet I didn't stop. I kept cleaning like a woman possessed, like I had something to prove.
Halfway through scrubbing the counter, he passed by me—slowly, deliberately close. I could smell the stale sweat on him. I knew it wasn't an accident. His hand brushed mine. Just for a second. Enough to make me pause.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but smooth like he enjoyed watching me flinch.
"Yeah," I lied, too quickly. "Just tired."
He laughed softly. "Your man keeping you busy?"
I didn't answer. I turned and reached for the mop. As I bent, my skirt rose slightly, and I felt it—his eyes burning into my backside. That's when the heat crawled up my neck again. Embarrassment? Shame? Or something worse—something like thrill.
I hated myself for it.
He didn't say much after that. Just watched. Like I was some personal performance meant for him alone. I could feel him getting off on the silence, the obedience. I could hear the tick of the wall clock growing louder. The longer I stayed, the more I felt like something was cracking inside me. Some old layer of me peeling back—wife, mother, maid. Beneath it, a woman who had been looked at like that once. A woman who used to be aware of her own body. Of her own power.
It disgusted me that he saw that before my own husband did.
After a while, he called out, "Can you read the names on these tablets? My eyes are going bad."
I moved to the table, stood beside him. He handed me a strip of pills, his fingers brushing mine again, slow and sticky like honey. I read out the names, my voice low, almost hoarse. He just kept staring at me, his lips slightly parted, like he wasn't listening to a damn word—just watching the shape of my mouth.
When I turned back to the sink to finish the last few dishes, I bent over a bit too much. I knew it. I could feel the fabric stretch across my ass, hear the creak of his chair as he adjusted himself. He wasn't even subtle anymore.
But I didn't stop. I let him look. It was shameful. But for some reason, I was enjoying this game.
I should be ashamed. My actions felt like a betrayal to my husband but my body chose to disagree.
And just when I thought the moment couldn't get any thicker, the door banged open.
It was loud, sudden, stupid.
I froze.
And then I heard it—his voice. My husband.
"What… what are you doing?" I asked, stepping forward. Confused.
The old man scowled at him. "What is wrong with you? You come banging like I've locked her inside?"
I stared at my husband. He looked… lost. Guilt was written across his face, even before he spoke.
"I was just worried," he said softly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
I didn't say anything right then. I didn't trust what might come out. Anger. Shame. Embarrassment.
We left quietly. I didn't look back at the old man's face.
At home, I walked straight to the kitchen, it stung me when I recalled how my actions were infront of the old man. That wasn't me. That was somebody else. I still love my husband and thats it.
I pulled out the leftovers, and reheated them. My hands moved fast, but my heart was slow. Heavy.
When I knocked on the study door and stepped in with his plate, I saw the weight on his shoulders. He looked like a child caught lying.
I placed the plate on the table.
"You didn't come out," I said.
He didn't answer. Just looked at me with those sorry eyes.
So I hugged him.
I didn't know why. Maybe to comfort him. Maybe to comfort myself. He wrapped his arms around me too, tightly. And in that moment, we were quiet. Together.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
I didn't reply for a few seconds. Then, "Don't do that again."
He nodded.
I sat beside him and explained what happened.
"I was mopping. It really stank in there. He just asked for help with his medicines. I read the labels and put them on the table. That's all."
His shoulders eased a little. His eyes softened. I saw relief—and something else. Shame.
I stood up.
"Eat your lunch before it gets cold," I said and walked out.
But I didn't forget the way the old man looked at me. Or how my knees felt weak when his feet came near. Or the strange, silent thing inside me that had stirred when I saw him watching.
I didn't have a name for it.
But I knew it hadn't been there before.
And now, I wasn't sure how to make it go away.