I hum contentedly as I unpack his clothes from the luggage into the closet, a surge of joy and anticipation coursing through me. My gaze drifts to the bedroom desk, where six unique bottles of cologne sit proudly, and I can't help but grin. After numerous trials and errors, I've crafted six distinctive scents that perfectly complement his natural pheromones. It feels like a genuine accomplishment—a personal and intimate way to put my chemistry knowledge to use.
I never got the chance to make more cologne for Roberto after that first and only bottle. Mr. Silence isn't Roberto. They're two distinctly different men. Yet, somehow, I feel vindicated and comforted, as if I'm finally fulfilling a promise I once made to Roberto.
More than that, there's a thrill in experimenting and testing the fragrances on him. Thinking back to our sensual cologne testing sessions, a warmth spreads across my cheeks, and I can't contain smiling at the memories we've made together.
As I continue unpacking, my attention catches on something out of place. A gasp escapes me as I notice the lipstick stain on the collar of his crisp white shirt. My heart skips, then races, each beat faster than the last. I swallow hard, my throat dry, something caught and refusing to move. I step back, repulsed by the bold red imprint of full lips so clearly marked on the white fabric.
My hand instinctively covers my stomach as a knot tightens deep inside. Questions whirl through my mind, so rapid I can't hold onto one. Goosebumps run along my arms and up my legs as I force myself to focus on the shirt lying on top the bag.
With growing unease, I rummage through the suitcase I'm unpacking, sniffing and searching for anything unfamiliar. Then, I turn to his closet, meticulously inspecting each shirt for another sign, but find nothing. Only the white shirt bears the telltale mark.
My heart pounds uncontrollably at the flashing image of him having sex with Alisa in that room. My thoughts are now clear, but I don't want to think them. I can't think them.
The act of refusal is dizzying, so I sit on the marble floor, hoping it will cool me. But the more I try to calm my heart, the tighter the knot in my stomach becomes until I run to the restroom and gag over the toilet, trying to empty the ideas in my head that my body is reacting to. My body is forcing me to feel while I try to block out my mind.
Is this the monogamous woman I fear he'll fall in love with? Has she arrived? Is it her, or is she me? Have I lost myself? I'm not monogamous! No, no. I can't have intrusive thoughts now. If I don't think, I'll feel. Which is worse? Neither can be denied.
I have better control over body than mind. I can endure bodily pain more than emotional ones. A decision has been made in the second that feels like an eternity.
I shut my eyes and let the tears flow. With each flood, the knots ease, my heart slows, and acceptance comes easier. I should have known better. I know jealousy well. It is one emotion I should never suppress, because the mixture only becomes more poisonous when hidden. Come on, Ace! You know this!
I cling to the white shirt with the clear marking. The dark red of heart-shape lips imprint makes my blood boil. After taking a few long, deep breaths, I feel a mixture of relief and lingering uncertainty, yearning for an explanation. Staring down at the stain, I confront my questions.
Is this casual? Does he have another woman he's kept elsewhere? Has he fallen in love with her? What if I'm the other woman he kept secretly from his wife, and I'm staring at his wife? Maybe he can't be honest with me because I haven't told him that I'm polyamorous. Is it less painful if he leaves me for another woman than because I'm poly?
Is he lying to me or to her? Can I handle the truth? What if all those emotions he had shown me were for her? I can convince her can't I? Even if she's monogamous, we can work something out right? She can be his primary and I'll....
What if I pretend the stain isn't there... that his white shirt is as crisp and clean as when I put it on him five days ago, before he left on his business trip? I can pretend I never saw this. All I have to do is put it in the laundry basket with all the others.
My hand shakes as it hovers over the basket holding onto the shirt. My fingers clutching around one shirt's shoulder. The shakier my hand, the tighter I grip. I want to but I can't let go.
So consumed by the inner war, I don't notice the tears streaming down my face until I see them staining his shirt. I reach up to touch my damp cheeks, almost in disbelief. Seated on the sofa for hours, clutching the white shirt, I'm swept up in a whirlwind of emotions, weeping uncontrollably at times. My mind plays out every possible scenario—from him being married with children to a hooker's forgotten mark. I feel utterly drained, as though I've lived through each harrowing possibility myself.
With the tears comes a fragile clarity, the kind that forces me to look at the truth, no matter how much it hurts. After more than three hours of torturous speculation, I resolve to confront him about the fact that I am polyamorous. Whatever the outcome, I am determined to face the truth, no matter how heart-wrenching it might be. With renewed resolve, I freshen up and order food delivery for dinner, since I have no energy left to cook.