The Whisper of your voice

I was sitting with a woman I didn't know, drinking coffee and offering her to live with me.

It was my fault for destroying her idea that she had a happy life. But from the little she told me, it hadn't been quite like that. I felt vulnerable. I asked her to have a drink to satisfy my curiosity; I think she did too.

Offering her the house came naturally to me. The environment where I work didn't take everything away from me. I still had hidden traces of who I was. Guilt? Yes, that too. Feeling responsible for not thinking things through twice.

I saw her when the musicians appeared, setting up an improvised stage. Another brilliant idea from the campaign manager: crying poverty with live music, salmon, and bottles of Cristal. But hey, those people were like that about everything.

They showed one thing in front of the cameras and behind the scenes they didn't deprive themselves of anything. A fundraising dinner. Lie, there was money to spare. It was to kiss ass, to buy votes with champagne and fake smiles.

Cheap dress, bass hanging from her shoulder. I froze. It was her. My wife's lover's girlfriend. Brown hair, green eyes. Nothing special. Average. With worn boots instead of shoes.

She fixed her eyes on me when they started playing. She looked away immediately.

I stood against the wall. I watched her all night. Every movement, every gesture. How she played, how she breathed. Every now and then she looked back at me. Nervous. Uncomfortable. She must have thought I was a psychopath or a lunatic.

And maybe I was, because I couldn't stop imagining Vera fucking her boyfriend. Imagining how he would take her to bed, and if he would do it the same way he did with the bassist. If he would touch her breasts the same way, if she would moan the same way.

I felt myself getting hard. In the middle of the fucking fundraiser.

When the first piece ended, I applauded along with the rest. A councilman approached me to talk. He asked me about my wife. I no longer had a wife, I didn't even know where she had gone. Maybe with that guy, maybe to a hotel. Certainly not to her mother's house, because they hated each other.

"She's not feeling well," I lied.

Between songs, she tuned her instrument, biting her lip. The line of her bra was visible under her dress. I wondered what the hell she was doing there, playing for this bunch of corrupt people. Did she need the money? Or was it just a coincidence? It couldn't be a coincidence.

In the second song, she sang. Her voice was hoarse, and she looked at the floor. When she looked up, our eyes met again. This time she didn't look away so quickly. There was something there, a "we're so fucked up" kind of thing.

I had another glass of champagne. She hit a wrong note in the chorus and blushed. I saw her neck turn red. For a moment, I felt sorry for her. There she was, pretending everything was normal while our lives were falling apart. She was playing to earn a few bucks, I was smiling to win votes.

We were both pathetic.

The 40 minutes were up. Lukewarm, half-hearted applause. They started to take everything down. I wanted to go over and ask her something. Anything. But what could I say? Maybe she forgave him. Maybe they stayed together. Why rub salt in the wound?

Liam approached her from behind. His wife was five meters away, distracted with a drink. He whispered something in her ear. He got too close. Something he said completely changed her expression, and she turned around as if she were going to smash his guitar over his head.

"Perfect," I thought. "A sex scandal in the middle of the fundraiser." I could already see the headlines. Because that jerk must have spat one of his vulgarities at her.

Without realizing it, I walked quickly toward the stage.

I heard him say "Old fart" as she backed away. She was holding her bass with both hands, covering herself. Liam had that disgusting smile on his face. The same one he used before groping someone.

"Any problems?" I asked.

Liam looked at me. He raised an eyebrow.

"No, not at all. I was just congratulating the lady on her performance."

He licked his lips. Disgusting.

"How thoughtful. Your wife is looking for you."

I pointed to where his wife was standing. Son of a bitch.

Sabrina looked at me again. With sadness. With pity. She started to put the bass in its case. Her hands were shaking.

"Thanks," she said without looking at me.

"Liam's an idiot."

"Everyone here is an idiot." She remembered who I was. "No offense."

"It's the truth."

She closed the case. The other musicians had already left. We were alone on stage.

"Did you forgive him?" It came out without thinking.

"No."

"Do you know where they are?"

"No. And I don't want to know."

"Sorry."

It just slipped out. When everything got too much for me, I stopped thinking. Vera had left without a trace. Without saying goodbye. Without anything. I couldn't get my head around what all those years had meant to her. And I couldn't get my head around the fact that I still didn't care.

She grabbed her guitar and hurried toward the exit. Without saying a word. I followed her. I don't know why. Maybe to make sure Liam didn't bother her again. Maybe because I had nothing better to do than follow the ex-girlfriend of the guy who's sleeping with my wife. There was a rickety van in the parking lot. The kind that looks like it belongs to kidnappers.

The engine was making a muffled noise. The other musicians were already inside, smoking.

"Are you okay?" I asked her. I still felt guilty.

"Yes," was all she said.

I reached into my jacket's inside pocket and gave her one of my cards. Why? To get rid of the putrid taste in my mouth.

"If you ever need anything..." I said, handing it to her.

She just took it, and I felt her fingers barely touch mine. She shook her head. I saw her press her lips together. She was holding back the urge to cry in front of me again. Her eyes were very green. The dress clung to her body. She touched her hair.

Amazing. With two gestures, she made me feel like the worst piece of shit. And at the same time, I wanted to stand there, watching her. Watching her breathe. Watching her adjust the strap of the case on her shoulder, stretching the fabric around her breasts.

I was screwed. Completely sick. Because the last thing I needed was to feel something for someone else's girlfriend.

But there I was. Feeling the blood rush to my crotch. Guessing the curve of that ass that swayed when she walked. Imagining those full lips stretching and adjusting to my member, or the faces she would make while she came.

She hesitated for two seconds and I jumped in, offering her a coffee. What I really needed was to check if it was her who was causing me to feel this way or if it was all the images of Vera that had been running through my mind all night. Why? I don't know. Maybe to feel like a man again and not an asshole.

But yes, it was her. I had a hard-on the whole hour we talked. And it must have been "that head" that came up with the idea of taking her to the guest house. The guilt too, feeling my boxers getting wet, the responsibility, her eyes looking at my hands.

Or maybe it was just a perverted game between two abandoned souls, two lost souls, snooping around to forget or to feel again.