His Watch on the Midline of the Mattress
2:47 a.m. The watch lies abandoned on the duvet, second hand frozen as though the spring has snapped. I lift it, set it down, repeat five times, then feign sleep. My husband’s breathing beside me feels like that of a dead man. Is this the end of us? The chill in my forearms isn’t from the air-conditioning.
When Did Desire Become a Corpse?
It began as a joke. “Our bed is so vast the middle feels empty.” He laughed and hooked a leg across the divide. March 2017, six months married. That night we drew a demarcation line. A toe grazing it was electric heat; missing it was glacial war. The line thickened by the day. Pillows became transparent ramparts guarding sovereign territory; whoever crossed first lost. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six nights have passed.
So why, tonight, can I not ask a single question—only hold my breath?
Her Name Was Sujin
Last May, at a company workshop, a woman. 11:17 p.m.—KakaoTalk lights up. One photo: Sujin’s nape reflected in a bar-restroom mirror. Instead of a necklace, a candle-wax mark glints. Beneath it, one line: “Tonight I miss that you’re not here.” Screen fades to black. I unlock, relock within eight seconds. I lie on my side, arms stiff to avoid brushing my husband’s back.
This isn’t adultery. No hands or lips have met. Yet my heart pounds. The word possibility sits on my tongue like absinthe—more intoxicating than any touch.
Second Story: Eunji and Me
Eunji, thirty-eight, married. We met swapping turns at the squat rack. One day the showers: athletic tops soaked, the contour of a breast acknowledged the other’s desire. From an innocuous “Drink after dinner?” we graduated, within a month, to a motel king-size.
Every bed has its own scent. My husband’s: frostbite. Eunji’s: damp sand.
We slipped off our rings and set them side by side on the nightstand. Two gold bands gleamed at one another.
“Don’t you feel like you’re eating the same meal every day?” Eunji whispered.
Instead of answering I brushed my lips across the back of her hand. How long since I’d felt warm breath seep into chilled skin? That cautious kiss scalded me more than any fire.
How deep must this go before it becomes real adultery? No taste of blood yet—so I still don’t know.
Why Don’t We Ask Permission?
Esther Perel says, “Infidelity is not always about sex; it’s the longing for a new possibility.” Inside marriage we deny the self that has hardened into destiny. Adultery is the moment on the threshold: one step and every rule shatters. Still, we never speak. Not “Let’s sleep,” not “Let’s love.” Why? The instant the words drop, we may lose each other forever. Better two corpses side by side on the mattress.
The Breath I Release
Tonight I lift the watch again. The second hand quivers. My husband exhales his quiet snore. The watch in my hand does not tremble. I nudge him gently. If he opens his eyes, what then? I don’t know. Only this is certain: this silence neither prevents my affair nor protects anyone.
Tonight, do you too listen to someone’s breathing?
And how much longer can you cradle the fingertips that long to sever it?