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Clara stood barefoot on the balcony of a glassy hilltop villa. The view captured her breath– miles of terraced vineyards spooling into a lake, creating a turquoise mix only nature could achieve.
It was the kind of place that popped out of a travelogue.
Her honeymoon. But only herself for company. Her husband, Benedict, said he’d be gone for a few hours.
She told herself to be grateful for views like this– they glossed over poignant truths like irremovable shoe shine.
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Clara stood barefoot on the balcony of a glassy hilltop villa. The view captured her breath– miles of terraced vineyards spooling into a lake, creating a turquoise mix only nature could achieve.
It was the kind of place that popped out of a travelogue.
Her honeymoon. But only herself for company. Her husband, Benedict, said he’d be gone for a few hours.
She told herself to be grateful for views like this– they glossed over poignant truths like irremovable shoe shine.
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It took her 15 minutes before she could tear herself away and step back in. Morning light slanted across the floor.
Let’s not let that view go to waste, she told herself. The pantry’s shelves were stocked with coconut cappuccino, Brazilian espresso and her favorite–Japanese matcha latte.
Again.
Benedict would forget his name if not checked. His mobile lay on the ornate teakwood coffee table.
The bearer of unwanted secrets.
The screen blinked—a wink with grit in the eye.
She reached for it to turn it off. The message was read– left open.
Signed with a nickname she used for her best friend, Vivienne–one only she knew.
The saccharine-sweet tone was cloying, almost choking.
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It had happened.
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Before the wedding.
She told herself she’d won. That she had played the better game.
They were on their honeymoon after all.
But the screen’s truth was a sharp knife that turned in the gut.
She had loved them.
Romance.
Friendship.
Both.
They were the Three Musketeers. But she had been thrown Benedict Arnold’s coat.
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She stared out the window, the stunning view a mere resort-room quilt. The wind teased the curtains apart in a breath held too long.
The college cafe.
The three of them, her, Benedict, Vivienne–sharing secrets.
Laughing.
Commenting on out-of-line professors.
Stealing glances.
There was a stolen glance she caught— but dismissed.
She heard his humming in the shower.
Off-key.
Jarring.
Oblivious to her.
Her clenching the phone in her hand, trying vainly to erase the message.
She let her silence sit, with her matcha.
She slid on a tube and slicked on scarlet lipstick. She kissed her reflection in the mirror.
Ready to throw back Benedict Arnold’s coat.
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The sunlight heated the living room, sinking into her soft skin.
Benedict sauntered in, a mere towel slung over his lean frame.
He whistled like a lark—only off-key, out of tune.
Dinner.
He chatted, mind scattered, about his night.
A dull round of drinks with friends at the Pine Villa Bar.
Her scarlet lipstick sat boldly against her glass of Merlot. Her eyes catalogued his sun-dried skin as he gulped his.
Not one word from her.
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The Merlot, for Benedict, was too bland.
Clara finally spoke.
“You forgot your phone.”
The knife dropped on the plate.
His soft brown eyes did a frantic dance around the room.
She stood.
Straight.
She showed him his coat.
Benedict’s coat.
Scarlet lips upturned, Dior Infidele trailing. She left him with the scent of infidelity cloying around his neck.
“Where are you going?” His fingers couldn’t hold his knife.
She stopped by the door.
And turned, ever so slightly.
“Get yourself a music teacher. Your humming’s terrible.”
A gentle click of the door.
Benedict’s coat–returned.
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She stepped onto the balcony, scarlet lips brushed by the dusk wind. A shadow tinted the picturesque vineyard terraces.
No longer a woven quilt but a sharp mosaic.
Grey clouds now covered the crystalline turquoise lake.
Partly.
The scent of Dior Infidele traced her skin–much of it lost in the gust.
She left Benedict’s coat on a rattan chair and stood.
Its dull brown colour clashed with her dress.
The fractured horizon promised only the weight of her steps.
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