42 Days

Part 5/7

Dating Series— SWIPE [1] | TAKEN [2] |RED '[3] GHOTSTS [4]

You wake up.

Wife beside you. Hair matted. Drool on pillow. Sheets smell wrong. Not her. Not sex. Just wrong. Like someone else slept here.

Your muscles seize. Brain screaming warnings.

Air heavy. Stale. Something rotting beneath the floorboards.

She moves. "Babe?"

Voice wrong. Testing the word.

You should smile. Follow the script. Instead—

"You okay?"

She stiffens. Eye twitches.

Wrong fucking move. Always Wrong.

She leaves. Walks to kitchen. No coffee smell. House always smells like coffee. Always.

Your body feels light, detached. Like you’re not fully inside it. Like your feet aren’t even touching the floor as you move toward the bathroom.

You don’t remember getting out of bed.

But here you are.

Bathroom mirror. Your reflection delayed. Processing you a half-second too slow.

Lights flicker. Phone buzzes. TV murmurs through walls.

"MISSING WOMAN—42 DAYS."

Chest tight. Thumb moving before you can stop it.

Her face. The bar girl. IKEA apartment. Called you Daddy without flinching.

You try to remember. But you don't. You don't remember anything.

Bar. Different time. Sticky table. Whiskey burning your throat. You don't remember coming here.

She's here. Not her but her. The Tinder girl. Gym girl. Past girl. Same face.

She slides something across the table. Keycard. Riverside Hotel. Room 212. 42 days ago.

Mouth dry. Pulse stumbling. You told everyone Bobby's place that night. Texted from his phone.

Card says bullshit. She knows.

You're there again. Watching yourself. Drunk asshole at the bar. Jaw grinding.

She's next to you. Then across from you. Then down the bar. Multiplying. Same woman. Always the same woman.

Memory floods back. Her roommate's shoes. Belt unbuckled at her door. Her hollow eyes. Tequila and regret.

Her voice.

"No."

Then nothing. Blank space where goodbye should be. No goodbye because you never said it.

Gasp. Hotel room. Sweat-soaked sheets. Keycard cutting into your palm.

Voice behind you. Small. Like glass breaking underfoot.

"Took you long enough."

Turn—nothing.

Phone. Cracked screen. New match. Her face.

“Ready for the last round?”