My phone buzzes like a rude bumblebee on the nightstand as I lace up my boots, pull a distressed, oversized tee over my head, and tie my blue bob into a low pony. I purse my lips into the mirror that takes up half my bedroom, reapply highlighter to my cheeks, and check my phone only after it stops yelling, after the call is missed.

It blitzes again in my hand, briefly this time, as I check the caller ID, although I already know it’s my girlfriend. Her dad is dying, and she’s being clingy.

The message reads:

“can I see you today?”

It irks me the way she asks things all coy-like, casually requesting my presence, when I know she’s desperate for it.

It gives me hives.

“Can’t today,” I reply. “I already have plans with Sheryl.”

Sheryl is the other woman I’m sleeping with. My girlfriend hates it, of course — she’s begged me to stop, begged to close things up again. We only opened the relationship after years of grinding misery, when we realized detaching from one another was impossible, but monogamy was, too. Love, for us, meant equal parts pleasure and chaos. 

But I resented the idea of someone trying to control me. After a few weeks of hiding that I never stopped seeing Sheryl, I intentionally left my phone out on the table where we were eating lunch, and as I anticipated, Sheryl sent me a flurry of texts. I wanted my girlfriend to see, to understand she couldn’t stop this. She was hurt, even angry. I responded with cool indifference, both of us knowing I wasn’t going to stop. Eventually, the flames in her eyes went out, her anger turned to defeat.

It wasn’t always like this. For years, I melted at the sound of my girlfriend’s voice. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen; her teeth were so white and perfect that I couldn’t help but touch them with my fingertips between kisses. We built our whole world in each other.

When distance separated us, I cried at every parting and ached at every return. For years, I couldn’t get enough. Now, it feels I finally have.

I’ve met someone new, someone who is so obsessed with me that they practically foam at the mouth whenever we’re in close proximity, which is often, as often as I want. She puts me on a pedestal instead of dragging me down, instead of barraging me with accusations.

My girlfriend wants me to say sorry for every little thing, to explain myself every time I breathe wrong. She has me pegged as a monster, and maybe I am.

Perhaps, despite this, Sheryl and I have become more serious. I mean, how could we not? She makes me feel like the most exceptional person in the room. She’s a few years younger than me and married to a man who doesn’t know I’m fucking his wife. Our affair is a drug; how could I quit that?

Back in the present, Sheryl bought us tickets to a comedy show, so I texted my girlfriend that, out of principle, it seems like the best thing to do is stick to the plans I’ve already made. I don’t want to go back on my word. Plus, it sounds better than spending the night with someone whose dad is dying.

I guess my response is inadequate because my phone starts vibrating again, just as Sheryl walks in the front door—I had given her a key recently. She greets me with a smile, looking at me like a kid in a candy store. I roll my eyes at her, gesturing to the phone with my other hand, and she frowns in response.

I say, “Sorry, give me a sec,” and walk down the hall toward my room, but on second thought, I don’t feel the need to hide this from Sheryl. I walk back over to her and stand inches from her face, finally answering the phone.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say indifferently. I’m immediately met with a voice so sad I want to throw my phone across the room.

“Hi,” she says quietly.

I gaze at Sheryl, who’s looking at me with golden retriever eyes. I smile seductively at her, which she answers by panting hot air into my mouth.

“I just got in from my trip and was hoping I could see you? I’m not doing too well. Seeing him in the hospital like that… like I don’t think… I think he’s dying.”

“Oh my gosh,” I reply as sympathetically as I can muster, hiding my smile so I don’t sound too disingenuous. I inch closer to Sheryl, hooking my finger into the edge of her jeans so that my knuckle is pressed against the soft space near her hip bone. Her skin is warm and inviting. She grabs onto my waist, but I inch my face backwards so she can’t kiss me just yet. She likes it when I tease her.

I mouth my girlfriend’s name to Sheryl as an excuse, and she nods in respectful agreement, backing off. I keep my finger hooked in her jeans so she can’t go far. I’m sure she can hear everything my girlfriend is saying on the phone from this distance. And as if reading my mind, my girlfriend asks,

“Is Sheryl with you right now?”

“No,” I say too quickly, “but she is waiting for me outside. Hey, listen, I’m sorry I can’t make it over today. I really should leave soon. The show starts at 7.”

A brief silence.

“I really need to see you,” she says. I can hear her holding back tears.

Something twists in my stomach—guilt, maybe, or just annoyance sharpened by the sound of someone’s weakness. I hate this. It makes me feel like I’m somehow responsible. My agitation grows.

I start pulling Sheryl closer to me so that we are melded together, and she smiles, giddy. I bet she is respectfully tuning out the conversation, her eyes laser-focused on me, on my body. I bet her mouth is watering at the thought of tasting me. God, I need to hang up this call.

“Can you put Sheryl on the phone?” I snap back to the call, “ I think she would understand with everything going on that you’ll need to break plans with her.”

What is this? Is she trying to compromise? Appeal to Sheryl’s good character, her compassion? Did I not make it clear I wasn’t going to see her tonight? Does she understand that I don’t want to see her tonight?

“I’m not putting her on the phone, I told you she’s outside,” I reply coolly. “I really have to go now, I’ll text you.”

A long silence.

“Okay.” I hang up with a sigh of relief, finally bringing Sheryl to my lips in victory.

The rest of the night, I keep my phone in my back pocket. I intend to enjoy the evening, to enjoy Sheryl. To laugh and touch and fuck. To let this new love overwhelm my senses.

I push the thought of my girlfriend to the hidden recesses of my mind, I let Sheryl fill in everything else. I’ll get back to her tomorrow; I’ll drive over there tomorrow, I tell myself.

Until then, she can wait. Her and her sadness can wait.

The phone buzzes so much that I have to turn it on silent.

16 text messages and counting.