What a lonely wife does at home

3:47. I check the time on my phone even though I already know it. The ceiling fan turns the same way it always does. Hot air. The fridge makes that soft humming sound. Outside someone starts a scooter and drives away. Inside there is nothing.

I finished everything hours ago. Dishes, laundry, the bed made on both sides even though he didn’t sleep here last night. His pillow still has that dent. I almost put my face in it earlier and then didn’t. The cologne is almost gone now. Woody. Clean. It used to make me lean toward him in the dark without thinking.

I open Instagram. Close it. Open WhatsApp. Someone posted their kid’s school photo. Someone else is complaining about traffic. I like two things and feel nothing. My thumb keeps scrolling like it has a job.

My body feels heavy. Not tired-heavy. The other kind. The kind that sits between your legs and in your chest at the same time. Seven years married. He is a good man. He works too much. I still wait for him to look at me the way he did at the beginning. Some days I feel stupid for waiting.

I get up because the sofa is starting to feel like I’m performing loneliness for an empty room.

In the bedroom the light is soft across the bed. I sit on his side. The sheet is cool. I run my hand over it and then stop because it feels dramatic. I am not dramatic. I am just alone on a Thursday afternoon.

I think about the last time. Two months? Three? He came home late. I was already half asleep. His hand found my hip under the nightdress and we were quiet and quick. Afterward he kissed my hair and fell asleep almost immediately. I lay there feeling wet and strangely separate from him, even though he was right there.

Today that feeling is louder.

I lie back. The old kurta is soft and thin. Nothing underneath. The fabric sits on my stomach and the tops of my breasts. I notice my breathing makes it move. My hand finds the hem. I tell myself I’m just adjusting it. Then my fingers are on my inner thigh. Light. Checking.

Still mine. Still hungry. That part is almost annoying.

I close my eyes. I can almost hear the way he used to say my name when he wanted me. Lower. Private. I remember the weight of him, the way he would hold my wrists for a second just to feel me push back. Those memories help and also make it worse.

My fingers go higher.

I am already wet. Of course I am. The cotton is stuck a little between my legs. The discovery makes me feel slightly ridiculous, like my body decided without asking me. Desire doesn’t care about the time or whether anyone is home. It just arrives.

I part my legs. The kurta rides up. Cool air. My middle finger finds the swollen place and moves in a small circle. A sound comes out of me and I bite it back even though no one can hear. Habit.

This is what a lonely wife does at home, I guess.

She doesn’t always wait.

I slide one finger in, then another. It feels familiar and not enough. My other hand goes to my breast. The nipple is already tight. I roll it the way he used to. Pleasure starts low and warm. I rock my hips against my hand. It feels a little clumsy at first. My wrist angle is wrong. I adjust.

In my head he is here, but not the tired version who asks about dinner. The earlier one. The one who once pushed me against the kitchen counter on a Sunday and fucked me while the chai boiled over and we both laughed about it later. I can almost feel his hand on my lower back. The fantasy is specific and a little sad.

My fingers move faster. The wet sound is loud in the quiet. I am breathing through my mouth. The fan does nothing. My clit is sensitive; every pass of my thumb is sharp. I keep going. My mind tries to drift to the grocery list for a second and I pull it back.

The orgasm comes the way these things sometimes do when you’re alone — sudden, full, a little ungraceful. My thighs tighten. A broken sound leaves me, half moan, half something else. My legs shake. For a few seconds there is only the body doing what it needed to do.

Then the room is back.

The fan is still turning. The light has moved a little. My hand is wet. The kurta is bunched up. The house is still empty.

I lie there breathing. The ache is quieter but not gone. It never really leaves. It just changes shape.

After a while I sit up. Bathroom. Wash my hands. Splash water on my face. Change into clean underwear and another kurta. I put the used one in the laundry basket like it is evidence of something I don’t want to look at too closely.

In the kitchen I make chai the way he likes it even though he won’t be home for hours. I watch the milk so it doesn’t boil over. The smell fills the rooms.

I sit at the table with the cup between my hands and look at the empty chair.

This is what a lonely wife does at home.

She keeps the house. She keeps herself. And in the long hours between him leaving and coming back, she remembers that her body is still alive, still capable of wanting, still hers.

Even when no one is there to want it back.