Hazel...
I stood by the window, gazing out at the muggy pre-dawn of mid-December. As a housewife and mother of two, moments of solitude were a rare and insanely precious.
This quiet interlude, before the clamor of my children's waking hours, was usually my only opportunity for a sliver of "me" time.
My husband, Jeremy Cho, a thirty-one-year-old Chinese American, was in the kitchen, preparing to leave for work. He nursed his morning coffee with slow, deliberate sips, a faint slurping sound accompanying each swallow, as if the world owed him a substantial debt.
Jeremy was a man of imposing height, possessing a physique that could be described as sculpted, marred only by a perpetually sour disposition.
One might jokingly compare him to a budget version of a handsome celebrity, albeit one with distinctly Asian features and an infuriatingly petulant personality.
After a year and a half of marriage, I had developed a thick skin against his constant negativity and violent temper. He was, after all, the sole provider for our small family, and I was prepared to endure almost anything to maintain our fragile unit.
"Have you seen my socks, darling?" he drawled, his voice thick with morning huskiness.
Not again! I mentally groaned, my eyes involuntarily rolling upwards. His perpetual clumsiness and ingrained misogyny were a constant source of irritation.
I knew I shouldn't harbor such critical thoughts about my husband, but his behavior often left me with little choice.
"Have you checked the drawers?" I replied, striving for a neutral tone.
He emitted a frustrated groan before issuing a low command. "Go find them for me, Hazel. I'm in a rush."
"Fine, fine," I conceded, the word laced with reluctant compliance.
I walked to the walk-in closet and slid open the designated drawer. Socks. Piled neatly on top. Not just one pair, but several.
I closed the drawer with a soft click and returned to the kitchen. He remained seated at the table, still engrossed in his coffee as he followed me to our bedroom, offering no acknowledgment of my presence.
"Put them on for me, so I can enjoy my coffee in peace," he sneered, finally lifting his gaze to meet mine, a dismissive glint in his eyes.
"It's not like you have anything important to do anyway. I'm the only one who works in this family. Don't tell me you can't even manage this much?" His words were like tiny barbs, each one finding its mark.
I swallowed my resentment, unwilling to engage in a morning argument. I knelt before him, my knees pressing against the cool tile, and reached for his bare feet.
They smelled faintly of stale sweat. As soon as I had pulled on the socks, he grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the window.
I was petite, though not excessively so, a fact he often exploited by making me sit on the window, forcing me to look up at him, a subtle assertion of his dominance. He cupped my chin in his hand and delivered a perfunctory peck to my lips.
"You'll be late!" I offered, hoping to expedite his departure.
I was in no mood for any physical intimacy, but I knew his desires rarely considered my own. He leaned closer, his breath stale with the lingering scent of his morning coffee, and pressed another kiss to my mouth, one I did not reciprocate.
His oral hygiene was a constant issue, a consequence of his long-term alcoholism, a habit he seemed to have no intention of addressing, regardless of my discomfort.
He attempted to force his tongue between my lips, and I resisted, turning my head slightly. Sensing my lack of cooperation, his grip tightened on my arms, and he abruptly squeezed my breasts.
A sharp cry of pain escaped my lips, a sound he immediately exploited, using the momentary opening to thrust his tongue into my mouth. It was repulsive, a violation I endured with simmering hatred.
His kisses were crude and unpleasant. He would roll his stale-smelling tongue against mine, sucking it with an almost aggressive intensity. After what felt like an eternity of this unwelcome intimacy, he roughly turned me around, bending me over the edge of the table, and yanked down my skirt.
His movements were devoid of any tenderness, driven solely by his own gratification. He was no gentleman, only concerned with the immediate satisfaction of his own needs.
"Darling! I'm not wet yet," he grumbled impatiently.
"How… slutty of you. Where did you learn to teach me how to fuck? Since when, woman?" His voice was low and laced with a simmering anger.
"No! I didn't…"
He cut me off, any further protest silenced by the sudden, agonizing sensation of his entry. My body was dry, unprepared, and the forced penetration was excruciatingly painful.
I wanted to push him away, to create some distance between us, but I knew such an action would only escalate his anger and prolong my suffering.
"I'm gonna teach you how to be a virtuous wife," he muttered, his voice hoarse and grating.
"Dear! It hurts," I choked out, tears pricking at my eyes.
A sharp slap landed on my buttock, the sting momentarily eclipsing the internal pain.
"You say it hurts, but your whole body is trembling with pleasure. You slutty little vixen," he accused, his words a cruel mockery of my distress.
For goodness sake, what pleasure was he even talking about? This ravaged body of mine?
He pressed his full weight against me, forcing his way deeper. The pain was intense, but I gritted my teeth and bore it, a familiar ritual of silent endurance.
This wasn't the first time, and yet, my body never seemed to adapt, never grew accustomed to his brutal disregard.
My intimate area was still tender from the previous night's unwanted encounter, but my discomfort was of no consequence to him.
He was the epitome of selfishness.
His thrusts became faster, more frantic. I bit down hard on my lower lip, silently praying for a swift conclusion, for the moment when I could finally retreat into myself.
But alas, his self-absorption seemed to grant him an unnatural stamina. Ten more agonizing minutes stretched out, each thrust a fresh wave of discomfort.
I often wondered at his endurance, especially considering his general lack of finesse.
My gaze drifted towards the window, focusing on the deserted street outside. This neighborhood was unlike most; populated primarily by elderly retirees who rarely stirred before the sun was high in the sky.
As I faked a series of moans, hoping to hasten his climax, a sudden movement in the periphery of my vision caught my attention.
A shadow, elongated and indistinct, appeared at the far eastern corner of the street. Instinctively, I tensed, wanting to turn away, but my husband's relentless grip held me captive. The shadow grew larger, resolving into a figure as it drew closer. The face, however, was unfamiliar.
It was a young woman, no older than twenty-five. Her dark hair was styled in a long, intricate braid that was coiled into a high bun. Large, framed glasses obscured part of her face, lending her an air of intellectualism. She wore baggy pants that emphasized her narrow waist and a cropped top that tightly hugged her ample breasts, the prominent outline of her nipples visible through the thin fabric.
Her skin was a rich brown, possessing an almost golden luminescence in the muted morning light. In a fleeting, unexpected moment, our eyes met, and a jolt, like an electric current, shot through me.
The presence of the man behind me, his crude ministrations, vanished from my awareness. The woman offered a soft, genuine smile.
Deep dimples appeared on both her cheeks, transforming her into what seemed to my suddenly captivated gaze, an earthly goddess. She was the most breathtaking creature I had ever laid eyes on.
Helplessly, I watched as she continued her unhurried walk, disappearing from view. An inexplicable urge surged within me, a desperate longing to call out to her, to stop her, but I remained frozen, trapped in my unwanted intimacy.
An unfamiliar ache bloomed in my chest, a yearning to know her, to possess her entirely.
This feeling was alien, unprecedented. I desperately craved her presence, her essence. What was this sensation? Never in my life had I experienced such an intense, inexplicable pull. Could it be some form of enchantment? It had to be.
"I'm off to work. Don't bother making dinner. I have plans for tonight," Jeremy grunted, finally withdrawing.
I had been oblivious to his climax, lost in the unexpected encounter at the window. Without a word, I pulled up my skirt and rushed outside the moment he had left.
My eyes scanned the empty street, searching for the woman. I walked in the direction she had gone, turning down one street after another, but she was nowhere to be found.
Had it been a hallucination? No! The intensity of the feeling, the profound impact of her brief gaze, was far too real to be a figment of my imagination. That woman… she had to be a witch. What kind of spell had she cast upon me? I had to find her.