The Perfect Wife

The upgrade cost me eight hundred euros. Marco would notice eventually, when the credit card statement arrived, but by then I'd be back from Thailand with some bullshit story about the airline losing my original booking. He never questioned these things anyway. Money was just numbers on a screen to him, as long as the business was profitable and his boat payments cleared.

I'd told Marco I was going for a digital detox. Some wellness retreat bullshit in Thailand. He'd nodded. Probably relieved to have me out of the way for a week.

I pulled out my mobile and scrolled through Instagram, killing time before takeoff. Elena's husband's promotion celebration at some overpriced restaurant in Centro. I closed the app and ordered another prosecco instead.

That's when I noticed the American in row three. You could just tell. Not conventionally handsome, but with that quiet authority.

When the stewardess brought the meals, she'd mixed them up. His fish, my beef. He came over with his tray, and when our hands touched during the exchange, there was that thing again. That spark I'd felt with the waiter, but this time more dangerous.

We didn't bother with names. Why would we? It's a plane. None of it counts anyway. At least that's what I told myself.

Three hours into the flight, after dinner and the dimming of lights, I got up to use the toilet. The first-class lavatory was ridiculously spacious compared to economy. Real towels, fake marble surfaces.

I opened the door. He was there.

We looked at each other. Long enough that I knew what was going to happen. His eyes were darker up close, tired around the edges in a way that said he was closer to fifty than forty. This wasn't some kid.

Something about him reminded me of Professor Bertolini from university. Same grey threading through dark hair, same way of carrying himself like he knew things other people didn't. I'd spent two years masturbating to thoughts of that man. Never fucked him, of course. But I'd imagined it enough times.

He stepped forward. I stepped back. The door closed behind us and suddenly the space felt smaller than my closet back home.

God, he could kiss. Not Marco's perfunctory goodnight peck. This was slow and sure.

I worked on his shirt buttons, my fingers steadier than they should have been. The fabric fell away and I ran my hands over his chest. Solid muscle, still toned. Not the soft flesh Marco had grown from too many business lunches. This was a body that still worked.

He lifted me onto the narrow counter. Getting my jeans off was a nightmare...tight denim meant to show off my legs, not for quick removal in aeroplane toilets. We fumbled together, him tugging them down. I was already wet from wanting this.

My knickers were nothing special, black cotton, comfortable for flying. When he slid them down my legs, I kicked them aside without looking where they landed.

I could hear people moving around outside, the soft ding of the seatbelt sign, someone asking for another blanket. All of it felt very far away.

When I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him down, he went without argument. His hands went to my waist to steady us both. A man used to being in charge, but he let me guide his head between my legs.

*Madonna*, he knew what he was doing. There was something about older men; they don't rush, don't fumble about hoping for the best. His tongue found my clit immediately, my thighs shaking against his shoulders.

My fingers twisted hard in his hair, everything going tight and white for a second. Fuck he was good.

When he stood up, I could see he was hard and ready. But then someone outside started rattling the door handle. We both froze like teenagers caught by parents. "Occupied!" I called out, trying not to laugh. The rattling stopped. He grinned at me, the first real expression I'd seen from him, and suddenly we were both trying not to burst out laughing.

"This is fucking crazy!"

"Oh god yes..." His hands reaching for me again.

Our bodies wouldn't cooperate at first. My hip slid on the counter, his knee hit the cabinet, my trapped foot kept me from moving properly. Every fumble made it hotter, until he finally pushed inside me.

"*Merda*," I whispered as we found our rhythm, and he made a sound that was pure hunger. Fuck me, he felt incredible once we got sorted. Filling me completely.

I looked at myself in the mirror. A woman getting fucked in an aeroplane toilet by a stranger. Not me. Not Marco's stuck up wife.

He came first, his whole body going stiff. I felt his pulse inside me, felt the warmth of his come filling me up. No condom, letting a stranger come inside me at thirty thousand feet. I should have told him to pull out.

I followed, so hard I thought I was going to faint.

I dropped to my knees for a moment. Tasted myself. Tasted him. His breath caught. I pulled away, surprised at myself.

This wasn't romance. Just bodies. Just pure wild animal craziness fucking. Both of us tried to look presentable again. Back to being strangers.

Fucking a random stranger in an aeroplane toilet. Was this who I was becoming?

Or maybe I was just finally waking up after years of sleepwalking through my marriage.

Back in my seat I dozed off over India somewhere. Dreamed I was back in that toilet but this time Marco was pressed against the door, listening. The flight attendant was there too, hands on my thighs. All of them wanting me at once. *Cristo*, what kind of desperate bitch dreams this shit?

Woke up wet and ashamed when we hit turbulence.

The plane droned on toward Bangkok. I'd have to spend a week pretending to meditate and yeast or whatever shit they served at these places.

The automatic doors opened and Bangkok airport hit me like a wall. Porco dio -- the heat!

I was looking for the taxi queue when I spotted him again, loading his bag into a black car. Not a taxi. Private car. And he wasn't alone. She was petite. Thai. I wanted to hate her. His hands were all over her arse.

I climbed into the next available taxi. My phone buzzed with a text from Marco: "Landed safely? Remember to post something on Instagram."

Tomorrow I'd deal with the health-retreat bullshit. Pretend I'd found myself. Tonight? A bar. A drink. Maybe another stranger.

Though actually, what if Marco finds out? He's not stupid. Well, he's not that smart either, but still. I should probably buy him something nice from the airport. A watch? He likes watches.

The taxi driver looked at me in the rearview mirror. Had I been talking out loud? *Cristo*.

---

The hotel key card wouldn't work. Third try, green light, beige furniture, full on air con. Bangkok pressed against the glass outside.

I needed a drink.

The barman crushed mint with the flat boredom of a man who'd done it a thousand times, eyes fixed on the football flickering above the bottles. He looked past me the way they all did.

At the corner table, two kids sat over single beers, a phone tethered to the wall. Sounded English, real English not broken. Backpacks at their feet, baggy hippy clothes sagging on bodies thinned by months of street-stall meals and cheap instant ramen.

The boy was cute but sunburnt, blonde hair that needed cutting weeks ago. The girl had a sensible bob cut, a silver nose ring, and a tattoo that made her look unoriginal. Jesus they looked tired.

I ordered a Mojito.

Their mobile died mid-sentence. I heard her curse. "Shit. We're totally stuffed now. Can't even remember where we're supposed to be staying."

I was already moving before I decided to. "Scusa, ho problemi, sorry I mean phone troubles?"

He looked up. "Yeah, err hi buongiorno...it's like... completely dead."

"We are looking for our guesthouse," she added. "Wat something? But like, every place here is Wat something, isn't it?"

I smiled. But for a second, I wondered if they could see through me... the hunger, the desperation. If they'd laugh and walk away.

"I'm lost too." I gestured at their empty glasses. "Let me buy you another drink."

They exchanged glances. Hesitant. "Um... okay," she said finally.

The barman came over. "Chang," he said. "And, er..." He looked at her.

"Something strong with fruit? Sex on the Beach?"

I ordered another Mojito for myself. Watched them fidget.

"So where are you from?" I asked. But I was already imagining what they'd both look like naked.

"London" he said. "Well, like, near London. You?"

"Milano."

"Oh wow," she looked surprised. "That's like... so cool."

I let them talk. Three months backpacking. They had that unwashed, desperate freedom only the very young could wear.

"You travelling alone?" she asked.

"For now." I sipped my drink. "Supposed to be at a wellness retreat tomorrow. Yoga, meditation, pretending vegetables fix broken marriages."

She stared into her glass. He started peeling the label off his bottle. Neither said anything.

"So like..." she started, then stopped. "Are you okay? With that?"

Direct question. I liked her. "Are any of us okay with anything?"

More nervous laughter. By his third beer, he was loosening up. "We're supposed to go home next month. Get proper jobs. Becoming... adults and shit."

"And will you?"

"Don't really have a choice, do we?" He was slurring slightly. "Parents cut us off if we don't."

She picked at her drink. "I keep thinking about just... staying somewhere. Teaching English on a beach. Never going back to fucking Maidenhead."

"Why don't you?" If you're desperate enough. If your husband spends his evenings balls-deep in his secretary. If you're forty-three and the only way to feel your pulse is sitting in bars with strangers.

I leaned forward. Let my voice drop. "You could always stay in my suite tonight."

They both went still. His beer halfway to his mouth. Her eyes wide.

"Your... suite?" he managed.

"It's not a hostel. Clean sheets. No bedbugs." I paused. "Decent minibar."

They looked at each other. Some absurd silent very British conversation.

"We've been island-hopping for three weeks," she opened up finally. "Sleeping in hostels with cockroaches and shit."

"My room's not a hostel."

"Is it... large enough...can we give you something?" he asked. "Because we're kind of..."

"Executive suite. Forty-second floor." I finished my drink, pretending I wasn't holding my breath. "Husband's paying."

Their eyes widened. She bit her lip. "We don't really have anywhere else to go tonight."

"So that's a yes?"

He swallowed. "Um. Yeah. I mean... if you're sure."

I was already standing. "I'm sure."

The lift hummed up past floors of strangers. We didn't speak, just exchanged glances that landed and slipped away. My hands shook when the key card finally worked.

The room was large; king bed, fancy chairs, Air conditioning on full.

We stood there... awkward.

"I should shower," I said.

Steam fogged the mirror while I washed the day off...bar smoke, sweat, anticipation. I tied the hotel robe tight, then untied it. In my purse, the black cotton sat damp from the plane. A reminder. A possibility.

When I came out, they were sitting silent. Their faces snapped toward me, guilty as children.

"We don't have to..." she started.

But I did. I was starving for it. I wanted to be the one deciding how.

He stood first. Taller than expected, though still boyish. When he kissed me, it was clumsy, eager. Beer on his breath, youth in the salt-slick stretch of his skin. For a heartbeat I almost pulled back... too young, too raw. But then the ache in me roared louder. Nothing like Marco's scheduled fucking.

She was beside me, fingers brushing the robe's knot. "This okay?"

The robe loosened. Slid. Suddenly I was bare under dimmed hotel light. Forty-three, older than both of them combined. My body exposed to their awe or disgust, whichever came first.

His hands hovered before touching me. "You're so fit," he murmured, surprised.

Her gaze burned hotter than his hands. She didn't touch, just watched. Mouth open.

"Just watch first. Learn."

She nodded.

He kissed me harder now, hands at my waist. She sat beside us, watching.

I pulled his shirt off. His chest was smooth, no chest hair, no silly tattoos. Still pink across his shoulders. I pushed him back against the bed. "Hands," I said.

He looked confused. I reached into my purse, pulled out the black cotton knickers. Still damp from the plane, from the American's mouth on me. The ghost of what had happened hours earlier.

His eyes widened but he let me loop them around his wrists, tie them together. Tight. I was choosing what happened next.

"Now watch," I told her. "Both of you..."

I went to the minibar. Pulled out champagne. Cork popped. He flinched.

I let some spill onto his chest. "*Fortunato bastardo*," I murmured.

"Go on then," I said to her.

She leaned forward. Tongue flicked out, caught a drop.

I took a sip, felt the sting. Found him with my other hand. Already hard. Less girth but longer than Marco. These young ones, shaved, rock hard.

She looked up. Mouth wet.

I leaned down and kissed her. Tasted champagne on her tongue, mixed with salt.

"Fuck," he whispered, watching us.

"What now?" she breathed when I pulled back.

I smiled, my hand working him slowly. "Now you do what I say."

"Both of us?" she asked, voice shaky but curious.

"Both of you."

I moved over him, still tied, still waiting. His face flushed when I sank down. This time I set the rhythm.

"*Scopami come se mi odiassi*," I breathed against his ear.

"Oh god, fuck yes... whatever it means"

"It means, fuck me like you hate me, capisci?"

They both nodded.

In the mirror I caught us: me directing, him tied and straining, her watching like a student memorising forbidden steps. For twenty years I'd taken orders. Now look at me. The woman I was would have been horrified. The woman I was becoming felt powerful.

He came when I let him. She touched where I said.

We collapsed.

They fell asleep together. I stayed awake between them.

At three I slipped to the bathroom. Fluorescent light. Hair stuck in clumps, lipstick gone. Purple marks on my throat.

I studied myself in the mirror.

It should have drowned me in shame. Maybe it will tomorrow. But tonight, the shame tangled with something hotter.

Two encounters in less than twelve hours. The American on the plane, now these two. We never exchanged names. Maybe that made it easier. Easier to forget them later. Easier to pretend it hadn't happened.

Tomorrow I'd sit cross-legged, pretending turmeric tea and breathwork could fix a marriage. Tonight, I wasn't fixing anything. I was alive.

Marco would see the hotel bill eventually. The champagne. The executive suite upgrade.

Let him wonder.