Fidelity
1.
She doesn't trust him, and he doesn't trust her.
They smile at each other, cosy and sweet, at dinner and so began the enquiries. She solicits him about his day, work, clients, etc., the usual. He responds in low, dulcet tones, that it's tedious, that he wishes he were home with her—or anywhere, somewhere but behind walled-in glass. And then they switch; it's easy, has been an inveterate habit for two years and strong. It's simple, it's predictable, and it's even comforting. Knowing that life changes and not really.
They both have their separate affairs.
She doesn't ask about the lipstick stain on his shirt. He doesn't ask why she never reacts when he tries to kiss her.
Soujirou pours the foamy, condensed tea. It's his domain. She studies his movements, graceful and deliberate. He has aristocracy and magic engraved onto tendons and ligaments. Supple and wry, he forgets about subtle and why.
"I will be gone for the weekend," he says.
Yuki lifts her head, caught in lights and wondering what he was talking about. Then, it hits her, the business trip (so he says). "I think I will visit my mother this weekend."
"Good idea."
They lapse into silence, each knowing the other's lie but accepting it because it was familiar and effortless to believe.
2.
Hokkaido is a barren place, beautiful in the way a flawed pearl is among dirt.
He comes here once a month, sometimes more (if he can), to visit her. She is so different from Yuki. Fiery and defiant, she's forever at a contradiction against him. And unlike Yuki, she is fickle. He watches her carefully, guards her jealously, in case some other man (which he knows will happen) is planning to steal her away.
Soujirou doesn't even remember why he liked her, why he continues to see her. They exchange brusque greetings and everything is downhill, fast and physically run-off-the-mill. But he still can't figure out why he stays with her. Except, well, she was extraordinarily beautiful. And stupid and foolish and painlessly susceptible to manipulation. Plus, she guzzled down his lies and deceits like sovereign truths from god.
And maybe that's what he wanted all along, someone to never-question, never-refuse anything he requested. Because, maybe, he really was that weak, after all.
3.
For the two years that they've been married, he's constantly kept a different lover.
It wasn't exactly shocking to her, almost as if she anticipated it happening. When she first discovered one of his adulteries, she practically had to force herself to get angry, be wrathful, feel vindictive. It worked until that night. By then, she was too drained, too burnt out to carry on to the battleground.
And so, she gently questioned him about it, wondering if he'd take the distasteful route. He didn't, another surprise to the tally. He admitted to everything sincerely.
There was no apology (she never asked for one).
They celebrated their second anniversary a week ago, invited all their friends for an enormous, monumental event. Afterwards, when all the guests were gone and gifts stashed away, they both departed for who-knows-where. She walking north and he facing south.
Humming a tune, Yuki rings the doorbell.
A man opens the door and her face lights up like a thousand-carat diamond under the interrogation bulb.
4.
It's a wishy-washy goodbye, and neither of them cares to speculate on future promises. Promises, they have long learned, are worth nothing. And if they had been any younger, any dreamier, they would've felt betrayal and hurt amassed together.
Now, it's still bitter, still a sort of agony. But matured, like fine wine or blackened tea. Bitter and mordant, drilling invisible holes on the edge of the tongue, but survivable and enduring for the better.
Soujirou signs the papers first and passes them to Yuki. She takes the pen and scrawls out her signature.
"I never slept with him, you know," she adds on a second thought.
"I never loved her," he says to note.
The lawyer whisks the sheet away and slaps down another. The process repeats.