Why did you do it? she asks herself, looking at the thin gold band on her finger. Why did you throw it all away?

There is no decent answer in her heart. Many times before she has asked herself the same question, and every time she is directed back to her own greed. She picked her battles, and decided no bed could be as cold as a street corner, no man as cruel as a stranger. She believed that there was nothing money couldn’t buy – happiness included.

Lace, she tells herself savagely. You gave it up for lace.

Sick with disgust, she looks outside, and sees that the dusk is already beginning to fall. The coming of night lifts her heart a little; she’ll be out soon, at least for a while. Once again she looks down at the ring on her hand. She sneers faintly. The sight of it encircling her finger – a promise, and a prison – sets alight a hopeless fury in her, and without thinking she rips it off and flings it across the room.

The small bit of gold slams into the far wall, chipping the paint just slightly. Embarrassed by the childish whim, she stands to make her way over to pick the ring up. Later, later, she tells herself, trying to soothe the reopened wounds.

To occupy her mind, she opens the doors of her closet, revealing an array of dresses that would make any other girl weep. She used to laugh aloud when she opened these doors; she would dance round the closet (a closet that was bigger than her old cell-like room) for the sheer joy of owning it all. Now she surveys the gowns with a dull heartache.

Her hand, running aimlessly through the dresses, pauses on a layer of black silk, and she stops to look at the dress. She bites her lip. Will it provoke his attention? The neck, she thinks, is too low, the lack of fabric on the shoulders too apparent. She hesitates; then she lets her robe slip quietly to the floor.

Despite the dead summer night outside, the house is cool, and the sudden exposure raises goosebumps on her bare flesh. Quickly she pulls the black dress from its hanger and slips into it, hooking the halter’s clasp behind her neck.

It is overdone, she knows, surveying herself in the mirror. In this weather she will not have an excuse to hide the dress’ bare shoulders beneath a coat. And she isn’t sure which will be more conspicuous – long sleeves in midsummer, or claiming to visit a friend wearing a dress any harlot would be proud of.

She curses softly under her breath, and opts for the former. Taking a light, thin black sweater from a shelf, she slips into it, covering her naked shoulders. It will have to do.

Her distress has begun to fade, and as she opens up her drawers of cosmetics she begins to relax a little. He has no idea. How could he?

Believing this, in spite of a nagging conscience, she runs a comb through her honey-colored locks, stroking away her uneasiness. The tresses fall well below her shoulders – a whore’s vanity that she has not had the dignity to rid herself of.

She is, as she promised herself she would be, careful with the makeup. Deep down she is aware that it matters as little as the dress, save that too much will give her away. But she cannot bring herself to leave it off, just as she could not bear to leave the black dress on its hanger where, in reality, it belongs. So she darkens her eyelashes, rims her eyes in kohl, and adds a touch – just a touch! – of color to her lips.

The summer night has fallen, and hot, damp blackness surrounds the house, now cooled in overcompensation. She does not mind, though; it will give her justification for the sweater. Stepping into flat sandals she stands, and turns to the mirror.

A girl looks back at her, or maybe a woman; the face is too young for the latter, but the eyes – remarkable, liquid eyes – are too old for the former. The thick, shining mane, the smooth, heart-shaped face, the slender, supple body – they speak of youth, and of innocence. But on those graceful shoulders rests a burden, invisible but still evident.

She turns away. Looking at herself sickens her.

It’s time; the night is come, and the time is short. Bracing herself, she lifts her head and walks to the door, features are set in stone.

Her footsteps are nearly inaudible as she descends the carpeted steps – the result of long practice. The house is quiet on the first floor, and as she steps down from the staircase and begins to cover the few feet between her and the door, she hopes he will not hear her leave.

Too late. Just as her hand touches the doorknob, a voice speaks behind her.

"Going out?"

Her back is turned to him; he cannot see her eyes close in dismay. In a moment she has composed herself, and turns with a smile. "An old friend," she explains, voice brightened to just the right degree. "He isn’t feeling well."

As soon as the words have passed her lips, she wonders; should she have said her friend was female? But he doesn’t seem to notice; instead, to her relief, he nods understandingly.

"I’ll be back in two hours or so – maybe three," she tells him. The promise is vacant; she has no idea what time she’ll return, nor does she care overly.

Once again he nods, and kisses her cheek in farewell. There is a dull ache at the backs of her eyes at the cool, dry touch of his lips. It feels a bit like tears – or, in truth, the lack thereof. "Give him my best," he says, patting her arm gently.
 

Even through the thin cloth, she just refrains from flinching away. His hands are always cold as ice. And at his touch she cannot help but remember the way he took her hand at their wedding, the awful mimicry between it and the frost descending on her heart.

With a small, demure smile, she replies, "Of course," and turns to go. The chill of his hand remains on her skin for a moment, but fades as she makes her way out to the car. It gives her confidence, and she allows herself a wave of satisfaction.

What she doesn’t see, though, are his ice-blue eyes following her from the window. Had she turned and looked back, even for a second, she would have seen the remorseful light of understanding there. He is no fool.

But, perhaps for the better, she never looks back.

As she starts the car, anticipation flutters in her stomach. Part of it is the thrill of breaking the rules, but there is more. There is a reason she continues to sneak out, a feeling that she lost so long ago that she yearns to know again.

The journey is mindless; she has driven down these urban roads many a time to reach this destination. But despite the radio’s soothing sounds, butterflies tremble in her stomach, making her fidget. The drive is, as always, too long for her nerves.

The time it takes for her to get from her home to his is something that she has learned to bear, but the time alone has the tendency to heighten her anxiety into paranoia. Nearly every time she can’t help but wonder if he still cares – if he even remembers from her last visit. Her trips, though memorable, are few and far between.

She knows it is useless to worry, but there are still twenty minutes left to travel. It is nearly impossible to keep her mind off it for so long.

Finally – finally – she sees the street sign, and with a gentle whimper of relief, she turns. Within seconds she is in the driveway, and it is even less than that before she has dragged the key out of her purse. She nearly runs to the door. Trembling fingers make unlocking it difficult, but in an instant she is able to step inside.

The house is small and a little dirty, but to her eyes it is more a home than the estate she left less than an hour ago. She hesitates, looking around. They’d planned for tonight – he hasn’t forgotten, has he? Remembering something, she nervously wrenches her wedding ring off her finger and drops it in her purse. It has no place here.

Then a voice, rich and warm, speaks her name, and she turns to see him waiting in the doorway. She cannot speak; instead she rushes to him, throws her arms round his neck and stifles a sob of joy as he takes hold of her mouth. They stumble back into the room.

For a moment longer they stand together in wordless greeting. Gradually their passion subsides, though they find it difficult to keep their lips apart. "I waited for you," he manages to whisper, cupping her face and neck in broad hands and kissing her face softly.

All her doubts banished, just as they are every time, she takes one of his hands in hers. As always, its strength and warmth surprises her, and she presses her lips to his palm, willing herself never to forget again its taste, its touch.

She knows they do not have much time, that there is no room for finesse, but nevertheless she continues to caress the hand – broad palm, scarred knuckles, callused fingertips. She needs something to occupy her, to keep the stinging tears from falling, and when he draws his hand away to release the clasp on her dress, she feels them begin to overflow.

"Just a little while," she whispers, as they fall together.

Afterwards, she curls up against him, wishing in vain that time could stop and let them lie like this, even just for a little longer. Feeling his fingers run through her hair, she closes her eyes against tears once again – this time at the thought of leaving him.

Weakly she confesses that her departure has been put off too long already. At first it appears he has not heard, but in an instant his fingers tighten briefly in her locks, a protective, instinctive gesture. Almost she wishes he might forbid her from leaving, to hold her captive here. Or perhaps she might just refuse to go, consequences be damned.

The tears are spilling from her eyes as she pulls reluctantly away, cursing herself for her cowardice. To her shame, she knows it isn’t true that she would risk her life to stay with him. She should; she should be willing to give everything up, just to be with him. But she isn’t.

Getting out of the bed is the hardest part, she’s found, and once free leaving isn’t quite so hard. But as she reaches down to pick up the black dress from its puddle on the floor, he speaks three words she hoped never to hear, from him or from anyone else.

"I love you."

She halts, and shuts her eyes quickly against the lake of tears that immediately floods there. Without answer she steps into the dress and tries to redo the clasp. But her shaking hands can’t find the hooks and, defeated, she pauses, trying to find some measure of control.

He doesn’t help by coming to stand behind her and fastening the catch. Swallowing hard, she turns back around. She looks into his eyes – those brilliant, fiery eyes –, and seeing all those wasted dreams, she finds she can’t stop her tongue.

"I’ll be back," she promises, voice choked. "Someday, I swear. Someday it’ll be forever." And she pulls him forward to kiss her bitter, lying mouth.

So many promises. So many empty, lonely promises she’s made.

It would have been one thing if he hadn’t believed her, but the light of hope in his eyes hurts more than anything she has ever known. "I look forward to it," he murmurs, and, with a smile, kisses her tearstained cheek.

Her voice is gone, and she turns away still in silence. Hating her own fear, hating the lie still sour on her tongue, she leaves the house half-blinded by tears. Dignity shattered in her desperation for escape, she nearly runs to the car.

Some things never change; the drive home seems to take only a few seconds. Arriving home, she takes a moment to compose herself, then leaves the car. Graceful despite her still-unsteady knees, she walks to the front door. There she slips inside, hoping he’s asleep.

By a stroke of good fortune he is nowhere in sight, and as she climbs the stairs to her room she reaches into her bag and draws out the ring she had discarded earlier. She considers, for a brief moment, leaving it off in defiance. Would he even notice?

Weakness and fear make her put it on. Just another lie to maintain.

Safe in her room, she opens up the cabinet to look for something to numb the pain that coming back always seems to cause her. Reaching in, she pulls out the liquor and pours herself a small, strong cup. Before drinking it, though, she goes over to the window and looks out.

The stars are bright above her, at least compared to the view from her old room in the city, where the harsh lights were bright enough to outshine them. The moon is still low on the horizon; there is still a long and lonely night ahead of her.

She draws the shade, and tips back the glass.

Swallowing hard, she hangs her head and presses her hands to her face. Is this all there is, she wonders? Nothing but lies and a dying love? She begins to weep, slender shoulders quaking, sobs muffled by fragile hands.

God help me, what did I do?
 

But there is no answer. Once a whore, always a whore, someone told her once, and as she slips beneath a heavy comforter, in defense against the chill of the house, she believes it.

The irony is altogether sickening. For six years she had no choice, and when it finally became too much she made one, the only one available. And now, because of that miserable decision, she has found that her fate is inescapable.

But there isn’t anything to be done. It is a conclusion she has come to many a night prior to this one, and she has come to live with it, now. She will live her life like this; she knows it. In truth, that is the only solution. She does not believe in miracles.

Her own voice rings in her ears. Someday it’ll be forever. It is a lie. And, at the same time, it is a prayer, and a dream. Perhaps, she thinks, as sleep weighs down her eyelids and drags at her consciousness. Perhaps it could be true.

For in the end, after all the lies she has told, she still has no power to resist the ones she tells herself. And so it is, clinging to a vague, half-possibility of happiness, that she surrenders, and those beautiful, lying eyes close in sleep, taking with them all their secrets.