For now, at least.
When the bedroom door creaks open, I hear my husband step inside, his footsteps surprisingly soft considering his immense size and strength. He whispers, “Wake up, printsessa, I’ve brought you breakfast and tea.”
I let out a little moan and yawn, slowly opening my eyes and sitting up in bed. I blink at him a couple times, pretending to struggle to wake up. I am a little ashamed of how good an actress I am, as Andrei adds, “Sleep well?”
Smiling, I give him a nod. He steps forward and sets a tray on my lap in bed, then puts a couple pastries and a paper to-go cup of hot tea on the tray.
“Good. Eat up. I’m going to shower.”
He was always this curt and short with his words, but there was always a strange brusqueness to his tone when he returned from these random disappearances. He was distracted, his mind clearly in a different place. I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seen in the time he’s been away from me.
“Th-thank you,” I murmur, biting into a cherry pastry.
He hesitates for a moment on his way out, hanging on my words. He glances back over at me and even in the low light I can see a look of something like regret crossing his hard features. Like maybe he knows I know.
A little awkwardly, he gestures toward the tea and says, “Jasmine green tea with rosehips. Hope you like it.”
Raising it to my lips and taking a scalding hot sip, I reply, “It’s wonderful.”
Andrei almost smiles for a moment, then simply nods and heads out of the room, leaving me alone yet again. I sit chewing my lip thoughtfully for a couple minutes, just staring down at the tray on my lap and wondering what I should do. I know it isn’t my place to question my husband. I am his wife, and I must accept whatever he does or does not do with quiet humility and understanding. After all, I belong to him. I am just one small aspect of his life, one tool to make his life easier — not to interrogate him about what he does when he’s not with me.
A horrible thought appears in the forefront of my mind: what if it’s another woman?
But something tells me that can’t be true; Andrei seems completely absorbed in our life together whenever he is with me. Surely if there was someone else, I would be able to tell. He would be distant, uncommunicative. At least, I assume I would know.
I want so badly to feel better about everything, to banish these dark suspicions and simply enjoy being with my husband again. After all, the vast majority of our time together is utterly blissful, even if I am still nervous and a little insecure around him. But he makes me feel cared for, taken care of, in a way I never dreamed possible. I sigh and set the tray aside carefully. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I let my chin rest on my knees as I sip my green tea and stare out the window. The sun is rising slowly, gradually bathing the Big Apple with morning light. I smile involuntarily, a sensation of fondness coming over me. I’ve really begun to love this city, despite its hidden dangers and pitfalls. Just like my husband.
I hear the squeak of the shower knobs being turned from across the apartment and then the comforting sound of the water pelting the walls and floors. I look down at myself. I’m wearing a lacy, powder-blue chiffon nightie and knee-high cream-colored socks, my hair plaited into braids over both shoulders. I have really learned to take some pride in expressing my spirit through my appearance. I suppose that makes me vain, and vanity is a mortal sin. But I can’t help it — having someone like Andrei to remind me that I’m beautiful every day makes it difficult not to start liking myself a bit more. Back home, I never felt beautiful. I felt proper, decent, wholesome, well-presented, sometimes even pleasant-looking. But it was all about how thoroughly I could blend in with the rest of the women in the community. I had to wear the blandest clothes, the dullest colors, to numb my sex appeal and make me ‘respectable.’
Over the past month, I have totally revamped my look to include bright colors, textures, prints, and styles I would have never even looked at back upstate. I know my wardrobe now would have me labeled a dirty Jezebel. A whore. A temptress.
But Andrei likes what I wear. And more importantly, as he’d encourage me to think: I like it.
I get out of bed and look at myself in the mirror across the bedroom, flicking on the light as I walk over. I look myself up and down, allowing my eyes to linger on the curve of my hip, the swell of my breasts. I never used to look at my naked body this way, seeing every inch of my flesh as dirty and unwholesome, an ugly thing to be covered with conservative clothing and hid away from the world. It is surprising to see that I like what’s reflected in front of me.
Andrei has done so much for me, changing my entire perspective. I feel a sudden rush of appreciation and affection for him, and I immediately wish he was beside me so I could run to his arms and hold him close. Then it hits me: the overwhelming desire.