Isabel was fastidiously shaving her legs after a hot shower that had pleasingly burned her skin and massaged her weary bones. The pivoting mirror above the sink was misty with steam. Her long, ebony hair drenched in shampoo was odiously clogged in the drain forming a thin, white film like milk skin. The white tiled floor was slippery with scented soap and the room had a tepid atmosphere. She was apathetic to it all, humming to herself and stretching her damp, naked body.

She could intuitively feel the presence of someone sneakily entering the bathroom which put a stop to her jolly humming. Who was it? Was it . . . No, no, no. That fool didn't have keys to her apartment. Goosebumps rose on her shaved arms. An obscure figure loomed behind her, she horrifyingly spotted that on the turbid mirror. She drew in a weak breath through her mouth and audibly let it out. The swishing sound of her exhaling like a puff of wind was the intruder's undoing. Suddenly, two calloused hands cupped her bare breasts from behind and she shrieked in response which icily pierced her own red ears.

She instantaneously whirled around, her feet slipping and her falling painfully in the half-filled tub. A roar of laughter erupted in the suffocating bathroom and she groaned loudly from the agony of her back colliding against the tub. The laughter ceased immediately.

"It's only me, Isabel," the intruder spoke softly and Isabel struggled to get up. "Here, I got you."

"No, move aside." She coldly swatted his hands away, clumsily clutching the sides of the tub and lifting herself up. "Can you go out, please? I want to put on some clothes first."

"S-Sure," he stammered idiotically, perplexed as to why his wife behaved so strangely.

The minute her husband left her alone, Isabel hastily reached for her red ruffled blouse and black knee-length skirt. She angrily wore them, deliberately cursing her husband in a loud voice so he could hear her displeasure from outside. Once dressed fully, she stomped out.

"What's the matter?" He trailed after her like a frightened duckling as she circled in the apartment, harshly smacking lotion on her legs and battling with her tangled, wet hair. "Easy there. All your hair will fall out."

"My head will fall out if I spend another minute with you!" She pointed the comb balefully at him like it was a sharp knife.

He laughed which ceased immediately when he noticed how it further triggered her rage. She marched resolutely into the bedroom, flung the drawer open of her nightstand and thrust a letter on his face. He squinted at the cursive writing. When the name of the sender registered in his mind, all colour drained from his handsome face.

He started, "I can explain---"

"You don't have to. She's doing all the explaining," she said hysterically, opening the letter. She began reading in an exaggerated tone, "To my darling Robert, I'm sitting on the field of barleys where we made love. First sentence in and goddamn, you have already cheated on me! And where? On a field of barleys in Italy? What did you think you were? A fucking cliché?"

"It was one time, I swear. I got carried away by the surroundings---"

"Yes, yes, leave me in our bloody apartment and see the entire world! Make love to the Italians out in the open like beasts!"

"It's my job, Isabel---"

"To fucking transport goods, that's your fucking job!" She hurled the letter at his face, storming into the kitchen. "You're a sailor, not Magic Mike."

"It was only once, I don't know how she found our address or why she wrote a letter."

"Does she know about me?" She leaned grimly against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, tapping her feet.

"As I-I said, it was once and I was very drunk . . . Where are you going?"

She brushed past him and picked up the crumpled letter. "See, what's written in the end. I'll read it for you. This letter will reach you, Janey, before it's read by Robert. You're a very lucky woman to have a husband like him. The one night that he spent with me, he couldn't stop talking about you. About how lovely you are with your pale skin and your blue eyes. How very kind you are . . . I'll admit I was a bit jealous, but I'm glad to know that Robert has a beautiful woman to look after him . . . " Tears rolled down Isabel's brown eyes and her tanned skin. "I-I can't believe you cheated on me and-and t-then told her about how happy you were with Janey! Your ex-wife!"

He looked shaken, but somehow maintained his composure with one awkward cough.

"I was drunk, Isabel," he said quietly.

"The past two years I had to hear about Janey all the time! How lovely and kind she was! She's dead! She's fucking dead! I'm your wife now, your breathing, living wife!"

"I loved her---"

"Oh, did you now? I could have never guessed from the number of times you don't fail to mention that!"

"I won't stop loving her," he confessed and she sardonically shook her head, trying to leave but he grabbed her arm. "I want you to know that I love you now."

"Yeah, right. But not as much as her. I'll leave this instant, I don't even know why I put up with this for so long." 

"Because you love me." He looked steadfastly in her eyes, tightening his hold. "Don't leave, you know you don't want to leave. Tell me, tell me how I can fix this."

She saw earnestness in his eyes, the kind for which she fell for him in the first place.

"Give me your phone," she said simply, swallowing the lump in her throat and he retrieved his phone from his pocket, handing it to her. "Delete all your photos and videos with Janey. None should be left."

The earnestness from his eyes vanished as he slumped on the couch in the living room.

He laughed nervously. "W-What? Really? They're just pictures!"

"Exactly, just pictures," she cleverly clung to his own words. "There should be no problem in deleting them then. I'm happy we're on the same page because I can't bear another day where you make love to me and then show me her pictures and videos. How ridiculous is that!" She cackled, narrowing his eyes at her. "Come on now, end this for once and for me. Put yourself in my shoes and imagine the pain . . . the pain I felt always competing with-with that dead woman . . . " Her voice heart-wrenchingly cracked as fresh tears sprang in her eyes.

He inhaled deeply, moved by her tears.

"Okay," he mused, his fingers trembling as he opened the gallery in his phone. Everywhere there were those big, blue eyes and clear, pale skin. He couldn't do it.

"Do it," Isabel said through gritted teeth. She couldn't bear to see his love for the dead woman a second longer. "Do it or else I'm leaving right now."

He selected all the images and forcefully pressed on delete, burying his red face in his armpit.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as his t-shirt became wet with his sorrowful tears. She wasn't sure if he was sorry for himself, his dead wife or for her. The last being the most unlikely.

Another feeling of anger and indignation swelled up inside her and she settled on leaving him, wanting him to lose both of his wives on the same day. But then, he lifted his face up with those streak of tears that she had never seen on his sturdy face before. Immediately, the tenderness of being a woman and seeing a man crack the strong façade returned to her. She sat on the couch, threw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug as he sobbed on her bosom.

"I doubted your love, but you showed your love by getting rid of those pictures," she said softly, mentally noting to later delete those pictures from his Google backup too. "It means so much to me, Robert. It makes the ache in my chest finally leave."

His sobs eventually died down as he looked up from between her breasts. He asked hoarsely, "Where's this ache?" Then he leaned, pulling her ruffled blouse down and kissing her naked flesh. "Here . . . Or here . . . ?"

Isabel laid down in pleasure, letting him climb on top of her and kiss her chest. The mouth that had kissed the Italian in the same, delicious way. No wonder, the Italian had already fallen in love with him after one night. He knew the art of making a woman feel desired and loved, even when he didn't.

The doorbell rang and Isabel moaned at the interruption but parted from her husband.

"We can ignore that," Robert suggested with glistening lips, but Isabel fixed her blouse and went to the door.

"You put me in a good mood to want to ignore someone," she said cheerfully and opened the door.

Janey's brother, a stout, balding man in his forties stood with a large box in his arms.

"Your husband's back?" he asked in a clear voice and Isabel nodded stiffly. Robert appeared behind his wife, rubbing her back. "I got some of Janey's things that I found in the attic. Her collection of books from her childhood, some albums . . . I thought you might want to keep them."

Robert noticed the rigidity of his wife's lithe body and was discordant.

He slowly wrapped his arms around her from behind, placing his hand on the spot where there was the ache in her chest and said, "No, I can't have them. It's better if you keep them with you." The stout man's eyes briefly flickered to the delighted wife. Robert removed his arms and smiled. "Actually wait, you can have some of her other things as well. We're lacking space in our apartment."

Robert disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the stout man gawking at Isabel in bewilderment.

"He's over Janey," she said confidently, satisfied that life was finally making sense.

The stout man's eyes swept over her. "Does that mean we're over too?"

She shrugged, then leaned and kissed him intimately on the mouth like she had done numerous times before. "Yeah, there's no use seeing each other now. I have to find an Italian to sleep with, then Robert and I will be completely even."