The Leaving
The living room smelled of Elena’s lavender candle and the sharp tang of her fear-sweat.
Anthony stood in the doorway, one arm around Jeanne’s waist, the other hand already working the zipper of her black dress. Jeanne—tall, sixty-something, silver-streaked hair pulled into a loose knot—smiled down at Elena like a queen regarding a disobedient pet.
“You kept saying he’d never do it,” Jeanne said, voice low and amused. “You kept saying I was just his ‘sad little side piece.’ Look at him now.”
Elena sat rigid on the couch, hands knotted in her lap, mascara already streaking. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
Anthony pushed Jeanne’s dress off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. No bra, no panties—just smooth skin, heavy breasts, and the dark triangle between her thighs. Jeanne stepped out of the fabric and kicked it toward Elena’s feet like an insult.
“Watch,” Anthony told his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Not a request.
He backed Jeanne against the wall beside the television, lifted one of her legs over his hip, and entered her in one long, deliberate thrust. Jeanne gasped—half theater, half real—and locked eyes with Elena over his shoulder.
“She’s crying already,” Jeanne murmured against Anthony’s ear, loud enough to carry. “Poor thing thought she still owned you.”
Anthony laughed, short and cruel, and started fucking Jeanne harder. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Jeanne’s breasts bounced with each thrust; she reached down and spread herself wider so Elena could see every inch disappearing inside her.
“You used to beg him to come home early,” Jeanne panted between strokes. “Now he comes home to me… and he comes in me… while you sit there like a kicked dog.”
Elena made a small, broken sound. Anthony groaned, buried himself to the hilt, and held there, grinding slow circles.
“Tell her,” Jeanne ordered, nails digging into his shoulders.
Anthony turned his head just enough to meet Elena’s wet, horrified eyes.
“I don’t love you anymore,” he said clearly. “I love fucking her. I love the way she laughs when you cry. I’m never coming back.”
Jeanne clenched around him deliberately, milking him, and that was enough. Anthony came with a long, satisfied growl, hips jerking, filling Jeanne while Elena watched every pulse. When he finally pulled out, a thick rope of white followed, dripping down Jeanne’s thigh.
Jeanne crooked a finger at Elena.
“Come clean it up,” she said sweetly. “With your tongue. Or we’ll do this again tomorrow… and the day after… until you understand who he belongs to now.”
Elena didn’t move at first.
Jeanne laughed—bright, delighted—and Anthony joined her, both of them looking down at the woman they were dismantling together.
The candle flickered. The room stayed quiet except for Elena’s soft, hopeless sobs.