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I worked.

I helped pay these bills.

I took care of all four of our kids.

Cooked.

Cleaned.

Made appointments.

Remembered school shit.

Bought groceries.

Made sure everybody had what they needed.

And I still wanted my husband.

Yet somehow I was the one getting rejected.

Again.

I started taking my makeup off.

“Fuck that,” I whispered.

Then remembered Nesha.

She had been asking me all week to go out with her this weekend.

Some Playroom shit.

Not an actual playroom.

A bar/lounge where this girl she knew hosted these kinky-ass adult parties every so often. Nesha had been trying to explain it to me and lost me somewhere between masks, private rooms and people apparently not knowing how to keep their hands to themselves.

Absolutely not my scene.

At least that’s what I’d told her.

I picked up my phone.

Opened our messages.

The last thing she’d sent me about it was still there.

Nesha: SATURDAY. I’m not asking again bitch

I’d never answered.

I looked toward the bathroom door.

Then back at my phone.

Fuck it.

I typed.