BENEATH THE SURFACE

Maddison

He was sitting there a few seats across from me on this train like every day since I first saw him almost a month ago. The eight thirty-five morning train and the five fifteen train. Every day from Monday to Friday.

He wore a brown suede jacket today, with a dark blue jeans’ shirt underneath and a pair of dark-colored jeans covering his long legs. The same black messenger bag he always wore rested on his lap. He trimmed his beard this morning, a shorter stubble adorning his jaw and chin. The color of his hair was that kind of dirty blond that seemed to blend with his tan skin. You may not realize the beard if you see him from afar. His uncovered face sharpened his features, and his electric blue eyes shone even brighter.

He sat in the aisle seat as usual, but he always kept his gaze fixed on the window. Even when someone was sitting next to him. It would be awkward for that person, I believe, but he didn’t seem to care.

My gaze remained on him. I felt like a stalker, but I just couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know what it was about him. He was indeed tall and good looking, but it was not like he was that special that I was this obsessed with him. So obsessed that I took the same train in the morning and took the train back at five fifteen so that I could see him. I even made sure that I was always in the same car.

The crazy thing was, I didn’t need to take the train. I didn’t even need to go anywhere. I left my house just to stalk him.

I had a book in my hand, but none of its sentences really got into my head. The words floated and mushed together. If you asked me what the story was about, I could not tell you a single thing. The book was just an accessory to cover my shameless stalking.

We didn’t know each other. I never knew his name. So, in the meantime, I called him the man with the messenger bag. Because it was the one thing that was constant about him. He always wore that bag, made from soft leather, looking well worn, and loved. It became part of the identity that I associated with him.

I considered at one time to follow him after he got off the train so that I would know where his office was. Or where his home was. But thankfully, I could stop myself, drawing a line to my craziness.

The corners of my eyes kept flickering back to him every so often. One of these days he would catch me, I was sure. Or perhaps he already knew that I was stalking him, but he was too nice to say anything. A little staring won’t do harm, that’s what he thought, probably. Then he must have thought that the poor woman must have nothing better to do, so let her have this small, harmless entertainment. What could go wrong with that?

I sighed.

When will I stop doing this? Even I thought I was crazy. Whatever the hell would people think if they knew?

The train finally stopped, and he rose. I quickly shoved my book into my bag and rose as well, then blended myself with the outgoing crowd to exit the car.

He walked ahead of me, not sparing a single glance over his shoulder where I was walking in his wake. He never noticed me. Not even once. I was sadly just an invisible girl to him.

I kept watching him until he disappeared up the steps to the main road. Then I walked towards the other exit and flagged a taxi.

The routine continued in the evening. I was now at the station, standing behind him, hidden in the throng of people, for the five fifteen train. When the train arrived, I stepped into the car after him.

This time, I couldn’t find a seat where I could face him freely. There was an old lady who I gave the seat to as I understood it was difficult for her to scoot over to the window seat. So, now I had an unfortunate view obscured by a gigantic head in front of me.

Not long after the train rolled, the old lady saw someone she knew, gave an excited wave to her friend, then she got up and moved to sit next to her. I considered taking her seat, but then she was probably only there a short while before she came back again. Huffing another sigh, I decided to stay put. It was also part of my recovery plan. To strengthen my will to stop all this madness once and for all.

It lasted only five minutes. Before I knew it, I already scooted over and planted myself in the old lady’s seat. And stole a glance at him. Okay, I lied. I stole several.

But this time, after several stolen glances, he stared back at me. I almost jumped in my seat.

Then I realized he was not staring directly at me. I just happened to be in that direction. I got my hopes up for a moment there. I blushed, embarrassed with myself.

He’s not staring at the window like usual this time, and I wondered why. After a few seconds, he diverted his attention to everything else on the train. He gazed unseeingly at the front. Then to the ceiling. Then to the window. Then back to the front again, where I sat two seats away.

When he departed the train, I still followed him, slowly, not too far behind. If he had ever noticed me before, he would know that I never went this way. I had my car parked at the station’s parking lot, which is the exact opposite way from where he’s heading. But he never took the time to look back, so I was sure that he didn’t realize that I was following him. I didn’t think he realized that I even existed.

My eyes gobbled every move that long legs made, scrutinizing how strong and confident his lean body stroll through the sidewalk. He slung the messenger bag over his shoulder, one of his hands clutching the long strap, the other buried in his jeans pocket. His hair was quite long, nearly reaching his shoulder with the front almost covering his eyes, swaying wildly with the disrupting wind.

After a few minutes of walking, he turned left, strolling along a narrow path leading to one of the small cafes that lined up next to the station. He went in. From the glass window, I watched him take a seat, alone, before a server approached him. Must be to take his order.

When the server left, he took out his phone from his bag, then busying himself scrolling down the screen. He might meet someone there. Or he might be just having dinner by himself, not feeling like cooking tonight.

My mind conjured many stories, like I always did when I stalked him. I would construct an imaginary conversation. I would ask, was he having a good day at work? What did he have for lunch? And he would tell me about his busy day, and I would tell him about the book that I was reading.

The stories change every day. One day, he was a doctor. Another day, he was a chef. He was a professor the other day.

Often, I would think about who he will come home to. Was there a wife? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?

I wanted so badly to go into the cafe. It was the first chance I could be near him besides sitting a few steps away on the train.

But I must go back. It was already getting late. I had to make dinner.

My husband will be home soon.

** * **

I stirred the sauce that I was making for the pasta in our white marble kitchen that probably cost the same as buying a modest apartment in the suburbs. This extravagant home that I lived in still blew my mind from time to time, never really comprehending how I got to this stage in my life. My husband, Hunter, was the person who believed that when he could afford it, he would buy it. He pampered me needlessly.

His mistake was thinking I agreed with him. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Money never meant that much to me, even though I grew up with enough of it. Sure, financial security was comforting—never worrying about a warm meal or paying rent—but wealth alone never brought the happiness I was searching for. I still felt incomplete, longing for something I couldn’t define.

I admitted, with shame, that I was a very ungrateful wife.

There’s something wrong with me.

My mistake was, I never told him how I really felt. He worked so hard, and he was so happy when he could buy me things. He went through so much to be where he was right now and all he ever wanted was to shower me with luxuries, because he thought it would make me happy. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him that after all his efforts, I was still unhappy.

The sound of the front door opening and closing awakened me from my thoughts.

“Honey, I’m home!” Hunter’s voice boomed from the living room; the same words he used every day when he got home. He threw his work bag to the sofa and shrugged his suit jacket off and threw it as well on top of his bag. Then he kicked off his shoes and socks, all scattered around the living room. That was his routine. My husband did that every single day.

Hunter strutted across the room, smiling at me. He invaded my space, took my face with both hands, and kissed me. For the past month, this was a new, additional routine.

“Hi, sweetheart,” He whispered over my lips. I held his eyes and saw nothing but the deepest love there. I should feel lucky. Hunter was a very handsome man. Tall and muscular, with a face that was all perfection, dark hair, dark eyebrows, and lashes that were so thick, they made his light brown eyes look dreamy. He’s very smart too. At thirty-two, he became the youngest CFO in his company’s history. That was three years ago. Not to mention the successful investments that he made over the years. My brain just couldn’t fully compute the ridiculous amount of money that we were having.

“I miss you today,” I told him. I believed at that exact moment that I missed him.

He hummed as he kissed me again. “I miss you too. I always miss you. Every minute of the day.”

I believed every word he said.

His kisses heated quickly, and he slanted his face to deepen the kiss, his hands roaming under my shirt. I moaned into his mouth, but I pushed him away. “I’m cooking dinner.” I chuckled. “Let me finish it first.”

He chased my lips and caught them again. “Dinner can wait.” He mumbled against my mouth, and he reached around me to turn off the stove. Then he pulled me away, lifted me up and swiveled me around before he deposited me on the kitchen island. “I need you.”

He tugged the hem of my shirt and pulled it up over my head, leaving me topless entirely. His big hand cupped my left breast as he continued kissing me. He squeezed hard; a low grunt escaped his mouth as if he could not control himself much longer.

While we kissed, my mind was racing all over the place, not really feeling the desire to do this. But I didn’t stop him either. I tried my best to match his intensity, even as my shorts and panties slipped off, the cold marble beneath me sending a jolt through my skin. The sharp sound of his belt buckles echoed as he fumbled with it. Then, suddenly, he thrust into me. A small cry escaped my lips—he was too big, and I wasn’t ready.

He moved immediately, fast. His grunts and sighs filled my ear, his hands touching me everywhere. Hunter whispered in between thrust how much he loved me, which he did every time we made love lately. His entire emotions pouring into his words, empowering every move, every touch, like he couldn’t express himself enough how much I meant to him. I was drowned by it all. Sometimes it was too overwhelming.

His fingers slid down and touched me in my most sensitive spot, but I was just unable to reach it. I knew he would not stop until I found my release. So, I pushed myself to concentrate. I tried to conjure the memories of every passionate moment, all the crazy passionate moments that I ever did with Hunter.

But I couldn’t.

So in the end, I faked it.