Do you ever feel like your body has two completely different memories? There’s the one everyone sees—the touch of duty, the functional caress, the sex that’s just a chore to be completed. It leaves no mark.

Then there’s the other memory. The one that lives in your skin, in the sudden ache between your legs when a certain laugh echoes in a quiet room. The memory of a look that wasn’t meant for you, but felt like it was branding you. It’s the ghost of a fantasy so vivid you can still feel the imagined weight of a younger body against yours, the fantasy of a hot, hard cock that wants you for the fire in your cunt, not the roti on your stove.

Tonight, the ghost is winning. My pussy is throbbing with the memory of a fantasy I’ve replayed a thousand times. I can almost taste the salt of a different skin, feel the bite of nails that aren’t my husband’s on my ass. It’s a hunger that polite society and a mangalsutra are supposed to erase. They haven’t. They’ve just made it sharper, more desperate.

The perfect wife is sitting here, typing. The woman inside her is dripping, aching to be fucked senseless by a desire that has a name I can never speak.