The kitchen smelled like lemons and coffee that had gone cold hours ago. Lara stood at the island, rag in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the counter like she needed it to stay upright. Thirty-four years old, ten years married, two kids who left the house quiet every weekday morning at 7:45 sharp. The silence pressed against her skin heavier than the thin cotton sundress she wore. No bra. She never bothered anymore when she was alone. Her n*****s poked against the fabric, stiff from the blast of the air conditioner she kept too low just to feel something.
She wiped the same spot on the granite for the third time. Nothing was dirty. Nothing ever really got dirty anymore. Boredom wasn’t a feeling—it was a weight sitting right between her legs, pressing, insistent.
Her eyes lande
