Sex Me, Stranger

I stood barefoot in the dimly lit kitchen, the cold tile pressing against my feet like a silent accusation. The house felt too quiet. The kind of silence that wrapped around my chest and made every little sound seem louder than it should: the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant ticking of that old grandfather clock Marcus's mother made us keep.

At twenty-nine, this was not the life I had pictured. Not this slow fading away of a marriage that used to feel warm and full of promise.

I checked the clock on the wall. Almost eleven. The kids were away for the summer, which was both a relief and a special kind of loneliness. Without their voices filling the rooms, the house felt empty, like a museum of what we used to be. Marcus had texted earlier: Working late again. Don't wait up.

I hadn't.

I pulled my blue silk robe tighter around my body, the same one I had worn since my second pregnancy. My fingers traced over the soft fabric at my stomach, feeling the faint stretch marks that remained. I used to love my curves. Now every mirror felt like a reminder of how much had changed. Marcus barely looked at me anymore. When he did come home, his eyes would glide right past me, as if I had become part of the furniture: useful, familiar, but no longer something worth desiring.

I poured a glass of wine and carried it upstairs, the liquid swirling with each step. In our bedroom, I set the glass on the nightstand and let the robe slip from my shoulders. The full-length mirror caught my reflection. My breasts were still full and heavy, my hips softer, my belly gently rounded. I turned sideways, instinctively sucking in, then let the breath out in defeat.

He doesn't see me anymore.

The thought hurt deep in my chest. I climbed into our large bed and slid under the cool sheets. My hand moved down my body almost without thinking, fingertips brushing across my nipples until they tightened. A small flicker of need stirred low in my belly. It had been so long since I felt wanted.

I closed my eyes and tried to chase it. My fingers slipped between my thighs, finding warmth and wetness. I circled slowly, imagining strong hands on my skin, a hungry mouth, someone who actually craved me. My breath caught. For a moment it felt good, really good. My hips lifted slightly as I slid a finger inside, then two.

But the fantasy kept breaking apart. Marcus's tired, distant face kept pushing in. The way he had rolled over the last time I tried to touch him. The way he complimented dinner but never my body. The pleasure faded. Frustration took its place.

I pulled my hand away with a quiet curse, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes. Instead I reached for the wine and took a long sip.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I assumed it was Marcus with another excuse. But the number was unknown.

Unknown: You looked beautiful tonight in that blue robe. The way it clung to your hips when you walked upstairs... I couldn't look away.

My heart jumped. I sat up quickly, pulling the sheet over my bare breasts as if the sender could see right through the phone.

Me: Wrong number.

I sent it fast and waited. The reply came almost immediately.

Unknown: No. I have the right one, Isabella. You've been invisible to him for too long. But not to me. Never to me.

My breath caught in my throat. How did this person know my name? How did they know about the robe? I glanced toward the dark window. The curtains were only half closed. The backyard beyond was nothing but shadows and trees.

Another message arrived.

Unknown: Your body deserves to be worshipped. Every curve. Every mark your children left behind. He is a fool for not seeing what is right in front of him.

Heat rushed to my face and lower. A pulse started between my legs, unwanted but undeniable. I hated how those words landed inside me, warm and soothing in all the places that had gone cold. I should block the number. I should be scared. Instead my thumbs hovered over the screen.

Me: Who is this?

Three dots appeared, then:

Unknown: Someone who sees you, Isabella. Really sees you. Sleep well. I'll be thinking about you.

I set the phone down, my pulse racing. The room felt different now, charged with something electric. I lay back against the pillows and pressed my thighs together. The ache had returned, sharper this time. My hand drifted down again, but I stopped myself, torn between shame and a strange new thrill.

For the first time in months, someone had noticed me.

And that terrified me almost as much as it excited me.

I turned off the lamp. In the darkness I pulled the sheet up to my chin and listened to the quiet house around me. Somewhere out there, someone was watching. Thinking about me. Wanting me.

I did not know whether to feel afraid... or finally alive.