Chapter 1: Fading Sparks

Near the end of the afternoon, Elena stood before a full-length mirror in her bedroom. The late light streamed through sheer curtains as the light of a lover’s first tentative touch. The warm glow kissed her skin, illuminating the curves that had once set Mark wild with lust. But now, at the age of forty-two, she was still a beautiful woman. Her long dark hair fell in waves over her back; she had high cheekbones and luscious lips that displayed a hint of tempting Mediterranean desire, inherited from the stories of her grandmother’s sun-soaked island.

However, the woman in the mirror was one that had slipped into the much dimmer light, neglected, protected in a fragile armor by the ingrained absurdity of her marriage.

She slid her fingers over the edge of her lace bra, enjoying the luxurious fabric as it rasped over her skin. This time it was a much milder teasing of the great undercurrent beneath. Her breasts, heavy and full, strained against the narrow confines, her nipples pricking in the cool air from the vent by the bed.

How long had it been since Mark had looked at her like this? With hunger in his eyes. He was again preoccupied, typing faster and harder than ever in the study below, his hands reduced to being absent from her cheek with a kiss.

Her fingers slid lower, over the soft swell of her belly down to the flare of her hips. Curvy, yes, voluptuous, as the papers said it, but Mark no longer seemed to see. She hated that thought, a suffocating twist in the chest, and yet beneath it bubbled another hotter thought of a great current of heat in the space between her thighs.

She exhaled, a soft sound in the still room, the hiss of the lawnmower from across the street and the scent of fresh cut grass, alive and earthbound, rushed in. The stale lavender of the perfume from the dresser was far behind as Elena slipped into a simple sundress. The material flowed over her like a second layer, clinging enough to show off her curves.

She adjusted the neckline, a fraction lower, revealing the voluptuous bump of her cleavage. A small act of defiance or a small act of invitation to whom, she didn’t know. Not Mark; it had been months, his bed so wide that it was a frigid cavern where he slept and she lay awake with a body pounding with unfulfilled desire.

Downstairs, the kitchen carried on with its perennial scent of garlic, herbs, and the heat of the stove. It was a meal Elena made mostly out of habit and joy. Sophia was going to be home soon, and her daughter was a full-blown, twenty-two-year-old, full of stories about life in the city. And Sophia was bringing a guy with her, right? A mid-twenties classmate she hadn’t talked to for a month but who was homestaying on the sofa while he sorted out his apartment.

Elena had no idea what he looked like and was repeating Sophia’s description. He was comely, athletic, and charismatic, with a boyish grin that made her daughter giggle and laugh in the way she envied. Innocent, Elena assured herself. Another young face at the table.