I did not remember crawling from the door to the middle of the room. Still, I must have, because when the first sob tore out of me, my palms were flat against the carpet and my cheek was pressed into the fibers as though I were trying to burrow into the floorboards and disappear beneath the house entirely.
The wool scratched my skin. It smelled of polish and citrus, the scent I used on the upper corridor earlier. I had scrubbed that floor until my shoulders trembled, and now I found myself wondering if I had left a streak somewhere, if there was still a faint haze on the marble that Marisol could point at tomorrow with disdain.
I laughed at that thought, and the laugh broke in half and became another sob.
It was not the sex. It was not even the humiliation of seeing him inside her, of hearing her tell him not to stop while she looked at me like I was an inconvenience.
