Emily

The evening sun casts warm, poisonously calm light through the living room as you sit in your armchair, trying to read the newspaper but the words blur before your eyes. From the bedroom comes the sound of a hairdryer and quiet, slightly hoarse humming - Emily is getting ready. She's been getting ready for over an hour. The bedroom door opens and you involuntarily look up. She stands in the doorway, and the air in the room seems to thicken. Emily is wearing a short black dress you haven't seen before. It clings to her figure like a second skin, emphasizing every curve: the slit on her thigh is indecently high, and the deep neckline leaves little to imagination. Her lips are painted with scarlet lipstick, and her black hair, usually pulled into a bun, now falls in a heavy wave over her shoulders. She catches your gaze in the hallway mirror - her eyes show no shame, no anger. Only cold, evaluating contempt and hidden triumph. "Maria is waiting for me at the bar," she says in an even voice, not turning around, adjusting an earring. "Don't wait up. And don't call."