One day, my husband went on a business trip. During those times, I devoted myself entirely to self-care. I visited a beauty salon, a spa, got a massage, and went on a grand shopping spree. Returning home, I poured a glass of Pinot Grigio and started trying on my new outfits. As the bottle of wine emptied, my mood lifted. In my new clothes, I felt absolutely stunning!
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I was surprised—it was a bit late for visitors.
Opening the door, I saw my neighbor standing there. He asked if my husband was home, and upon learning he wasn’t, he awkwardly and haltingly explained his situation: his wife was at their country house, and he, coming back from friends, had lost his keys, phone, and wallet. It dawned on me that he’d also been drinking that evening. We’re on very good terms with our neighbors, so I invited him in. The next half hour was spent calling a taxi service, blocking his bank cards, and trying to reach his wife, though he couldn’t get through—she was due back tomorrow. All the piling problems were sorted out. The taxi driver found his belongings and promised to return them in the morning.
I decided to make up the couch in the living room for him—after all, I couldn’t send him out into the rainy night. While smoothing out the bed linens, I bent over and realized I was wearing a tight, very short cocktail dress I’d bought that day, with the tags still dangling. I straightened up and glanced back. My neighbor was staring at my long, tanned legs with admiration. Embarrassed, I wished him good night and went to my bedroom, slipping into flannel checkered pajamas and firmly closing the door.
Collapsing onto my soft bed, it hit me that during my fashion show, I’d drunk quite a bit of wine and was thoroughly tipsy. My head was spinning. I fell asleep and dreamed of the sea, palm trees, white sand, a gentle breeze, and a handsome man swimming naked in turquoise waters. He approached me, kissing my neck, shoulders, and back. It was thrilling. I turned my face to him, and we began to kiss. At some point, it became clear this wasn’t a dream at all. I was kissing! Cracking my eyes open, I saw my neighbor and quickly shut them again, transforming him back into the man from my dream. I had neither the strength nor the desire to stop.
Leaning back on the pillows, we sat in silence for a while, unsure of what to say. After a wave of passion, a wave of sobriety crashed over us.
I broke the silence:
— What the hell?! We’re neighbors!
I went to take a shower. When I came out, my neighbor was asleep in the living room. I was trembling, grappling with what had happened, and started waking him up. He left early in the morning—either to friends or relatives—and I ended up lending him money since he’d lost everything that wild night. What a night of losses! He lost his money, phone, and keys, and I lost my honor as a married woman.
A week later, we ran into each other at the entrance to our building: me with my husband, my neighbor with his wife. We all joked, laughed, and chatted about the weather and upcoming weekend plans, as if nothing had happened.
Only the goosebumps on my back threatened to betray my part in the indiscretion. But under my dress, no one noticed. My husband stood off to the side, smoking. The curling smoke rose in whimsical clouds shaped like deer antlers. I felt both amused and ashamed. My husband, a cuckold!
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