Complex

I wasn't fine. I was less that fine. I don't know what happened, I guess I drank too much. I told my sister. I told her that I was falling in love with a married man, that we were kissing and sleeping together. It was too much to handle. Especially when I explained to him what happened.

I sat in his car, in a car park. I observed the area as he stopped the car. I thought he was going to kill me or something - he wasn't crazy, but if he was angry enough he wouldn't hesitate. He'd been staring out the window for ten minutes before turning to face me. His mouth opened and closed, for once he was speechless. But I knew that I would get hell when he figured out how to talk again. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.

"What happened to your hand?" He finally said, looking at my bandaged hand. That wasn't the question I expected him to ask. Nor did I expect him to say it in a calming voice. To some it may even sound worrying. He reached out to take my hand in his. I pulled it away, not wanting to chance him hurting it even more.

I looked from outside to his face, it even look worried. "I smashed a bottle," my voice was smaller than expected. I tried to forget the incident and why. I was so angry, so depressed, all because of him. I couldn't tell him why, I knew that would be his next question. It was a stupid reason to injure myself over; he was a stupid reason.

He raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on my thigh. It was different from the other times he did it. This time it wasn't met with fingernails being dug into, or hit, or... I don't know, it was just different. It seemed soft, something which I hadn't had the pleasure of having with Isaac. It was the complete opposite. "Why, Anastasia?" He questioned, his fingers tapping on my thigh. I could tell he was going to get impatient with me soon. I shrugged my shoulders, looking away from him. I looked out of the window.

I checked my watch, wondering what was so important for him to pick me up at eleven in the evening. He's normally with her. "I was just drunk and angry, I guess, it's not important anyway," I told him, shaking my head. I turned to look at him again, feeling like I know what he wanted. But, it was just an assumption. "I think we should just get it over with then, Isaac, if that's what you're here for." I began to take my jacket off, his hands stopped me. A smile was on his lips.

"You're not a prostitute, Anastasia," he chuckled, brushing some hair from my face. His hand cupped my cheek, his warm skin against my cold. "I don't see you as that," he added, trying to reassure me. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I really did, I wanted to believe that there was more than just meaningless sex on his side.

I scoffed, moving from his hand, shaking my head. "That's what I feel like," I snapped at him. I don't think he completely understands my part in this. "We only see each other when you can't get your sexual fulfillment with your wife. I'm the 'missus' or whatever. It - you, causes too much pain, Isaac. I really don't think I can do it anymore." I said, opening the door and climbing out of the car.

I heard my name being called as I walked away from the car. There were hardly any cars around me. I'd never been to this part of town before. I must have walked about five feet from the car when a hand was on my arm. It spun me around, his hands gripped my forearms. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I like lying to my wife over and over again that I'm working late?" He was shouting at me, but this time it was different.

I rolled my eyes, trying to pull my arms from his grip. "Just tell the truth then. It would be a load off, trust me," I yelled back, surprising him with my efforts to fight him. Normally, I'd just sit while he shouted, only inputting my opinion when it matters. "You never care, it's not like there's an attachment issue on your behalf, why should you start now? We could break it off right now and you'll walk away and live a happy life with your wife."

My arms were freed from his grasp. "That's bullshit. You think I never care? Do you think I go home and don't regret everything? I'm having a fucking affair, Anastasia - you wouldn't understand what it's like," he laughed, a dry and bitter laugh. "What do you mean on my behalf? That's your attitude, the 'me, me, me' attitude." I shook my head, turning back around, tears threatening to fall again. I hated feeling like this. "There you go again, doing what you do best - walking away from your problems. Face them, Anastasia." I could feel him hating me.

I turned around, facing him, wiping an escaped tear. "I love you, Isaac, can't you see that?" I shouted at him, throwing my arms up in exasperation. "And my attitude? I do everything to please you, I do everything to make you happy. Why else would I be doing this? It's not for me, I know the consequences, but I fell in love with you, of all people it had to be you, didn't it? I understand what it's like, and don't you think for one minute that I tell everyone what goes on between us. It's a secret that's too heavy to carry alone. I'm alone after we're done, but you have your wife. Now, you don't know what that's like." I walked towards him, pointing a finger at his chest.

"You told your sister," he argued back. "That's-"

"Who else am I supposed to tell? I've told her everything, but not this. You know why? For you. I told her, she's angry with me. I didn't tell her who - it's not like she's knows you anyway. You don't understand the need to tell someone, especially after seeing you with your wife. Being such a loving husband, when in reality; you're an asshole," I cut him off, trying to believe that he would actually hold it against me. She's my sister, I felt obligated to tell her, it seemed like the best idea - even when drunk.

His hand reached for my face, I moved backwards, not wanting him to touch me. "If I'm such an asshole, why do you love me, Anastasia?" He raised a eyebrow, smirking slightly.

I scoffed, running my hand down my face. "A cocky asshole as well, isn't your wife a lucky girl?" I asked, sarcastically. "Delete my number, Isaac, we're done. I'm going home," I told him, turning around for the third and last time. This time, he didn't protest or follow me. He allowed me to try and navigate my way home, in the dark, way past my curfew. He's such an asshole.