Kumanji: A Sensual Adventure Game

“I’ll see you tonight, okay? Don’t think it’ll be a late one, but I’ll let you know if things change.”

That’s my husband, Peter. Married twelve years now. We were high school sweethearts. Well, I was his high school sweetheart. He was in college. (That’s a whole other story.) We got married a few days before my nineteenth birthday, right after he graduated. And we never looked back.

“Okay, dear.”

He checks himself in the mirror by the front door. One last adjustment, then he’s out. I don’t know why he bothers. He’s handsome rolling out of bed. I should tell him that sometime.

“Anything you want for dinner?”

“Whatever. We can order. Don’t stress.”

Peter’s got a fancy job title: Chief Information Officer. I didn’t know that was a thing before he became one. As for what he actually does — couldn’t tell you. His office is super luxe. The checks clear via direct deposit every other Thursday. So what does it matter?

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m an ungrateful little bitch. What might surprise you is I agree with you. I am ungrateful.

“Bye, honey,” he says, walking out the door.

“Bye.”

The door closes behind him. The house is still. Alone again.

Peter was perfect when I met him. He’s perfect now. But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about a life of perfection with Mr. Perfect. It’s safe. And predictable. And when things are safe and predictable, what excitement is there?

I’d never admit this to anyone, but sometimes I think about all the things I missed by getting hitched by the age of nineteen. Dating apps were barely a thing then. Now it seems like every woman in the world is out there swiping left, swiping right, catching strange dick. Rinse and repeat. Not that I want to be out there slutting it up. Oh no. It’s just... I wonder sometimes. There's nothing wrong with that. Right?

What kind of life could I have had? I could’ve traveled. Scraped by in a cramped apartment in the big city, surrounded every hour by chaos and possibility. Maybe I would’ve made reckless choices, learned hard lessons, come out the other side with stories to tell.

But that's the stuff of fiction.

It’s not regret I'm feeling, exactly. Just curiosity. Could I really have known, fresh out of high school, that Peter was it? The end all be all. I thought I did. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly.

God. I hate how I sound. So ungrateful.

Here’s the truth: I couldn’t have survived in a tiny apartment, eking out a meager existence. I’ve grown used to the finer things.

Let’s get real. I love this house. Glass walls flood it with sunlight. At the center, a great room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the valley below. There’s even a grand piano, not that Peter or I ever play it. And don’t get me started on the kitchen. The cabinets were shipped over from Italy. Not sure where the countertops came from, but it might’ve been the moon based on how much they cost. They certainly glow like they’re made from star stuff.

Five bedrooms, three I haven’t set foot in for months. Six bathrooms. Walk-in closets — all of them full. And our only neighbor is a sprawling wildlife preserve.

Take a copy of Architectural Digest off the magazine rack, and you get the idea.

Look, I told you I was ungrateful.

And now you’re wondering: what does this woman do all day?

If I knew I would tell you. I must be doingsomething, because one day becomes the next, and the calendar ticks by from month to month. I mean, it’s not my fault. Exactly. Peter won’t let me do anything. All I have to do is exist, preferably in soft cashmere and muted neutrals. Some days, I’ll pretend to read a novel. Mostly, I just check my phone like it holds the answer to some mystery.

The days slide past, fatuous and frictionless. I might’ve had ambition once, but now it’s all just a haze.

But today, I’m going for a walk. I picked up a totally cute puffer coat last weekend, and it looks just cold enough outside to justify wearing it.

It’s cold all right. I can see my breath. Makes sense. It’s November. Most of the trees have shed their leaves, a few scattered shocks of orange and yellow. It’s beautiful, in a haunting sort of way.

Sometimes when I come out here I close my eyes and imagine some encounter along the trail. Today I almost see him: a man in a flannel shirt and blue jeans, walking his golden retriever off leash. He’s got broad shoulders, kind eyes. We make eye contact. \

He gives me a wink.

I just stare, not even noticing the golden retriever that bounds and nudges my hand.

“She likes attention,” he says.

“So do I.”

Did I just say that out loud? He chuckles.

“You hike this trail often?”

“I live in that house. The one at the top of the trail.” He looks at me like he’s been waiting. “But something tells me you already knew that.”

“Am I that obvious?”

He steps closer. I can feel heat off him. My pulse quickens. I feel like I’m about to do something I shouldn’t.

“You always look so sad. Whenever I come up here, I hope to run into you. To find out what in the world could give something so beautiful such sad eyes.”

“I, uh,” I stammer and stumble back.

And then just like that, reality comes flooding back. No broad-shouldered man. No golden retriever. Just me on the trail. Alone.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it?

I step off the path, pull the coat tighter. There’s a slab of granite under a tree, as good a seat as any. I need to catch my breath.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Judy?” I say aloud. A crow caws high up above.

I lie back, staring up through the branches at the steel-grey sky. Maybe it’s the weather that puts me in this strange mood. I think the French call it ennui.

I don’t remember feeling like this during the summer. When the days seem to stretch on forever, it’s easy to convince yourself that there’s possibility in the world. But when it’s like this, the indifferent borders of one's life feel like they’re closing in.

God, have I always been this morose?

I get up. What am I on about, anyway? I’ve got the whole world at my feet. Literally. And I’ve got a handsome husband and a gorgeous home to return to. What more could I want? What more could I really need?

Buzz. Buzz.

A sharp mechanical vibration breaks the November stillness. It’s faint at first, then unmistakable. a cellphone buzzing somewhere nearby. I scan the ground and spot it atop a tangle of roots.

Maybe other people do come out here to hike.

I walk over, hesitating before crouching down. The cellphone screen pulses softly. Who could have lost it? Maybe they're still close by.

“Hello? Anyone out there lose their phone?” I call. The crow caws again.

I pick it up and press the button on the side. The facial-recognition icon pops up — and turns green. The phone unlocks like it’s mine. Weird. Is it my phone? I shove a hand into my puffer. My phone is where I left it.

This phone is someone else's.

I open the camera roll. Maybe there’s a selfie. Maybe whoever this phone belongs to looks like me. That would explain the facial recognition. But there’s nothing. I check the contacts. Empty. I check the messages. Zilch.

The phone is a blank slate. It could belong to anyone.

I guess I’ll take it home. Maybe someone will call, and I can figure out how to get it back to its owner. That makes sense, right? Yeah. That makes sense.

Home again. It’s dead calm. Cool morning sunlight radiates through the windows. I feel like I’m walking into a museum.

I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. It stops me. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, hair a little messy. She looks alive, vital. This woman isn’t just someone’s wife. She’s someone who would do something she shouldn’t.

I reach up to smooth my hair, but she just stares back, unblinking. Something nameless is in her eyes, something dangerous. I don’t know whether I’m frightened or excited.

I shake it off, pull off the puffer jacket, take out my phone. No messages. And then I take out the mystery phone, bringing it over to the grand piano and setting it down on top.

Ding, ding, ding, ding. I press a middle C over and over again, thinking about the piano lessons I took in high school. My mother insisted on it. Thought it would help my college applications to add “musician” to my list of attributes. But I didn’t take it seriously, and I didn’t practice at home. Not that I hated the lessons. The teacher, Mr. Caldwell, was young, fresh out of college, kinda nerdy. He was hot in his own quirky way. I’d never have admitted it to Peter at the time – high school boys can get so jealous – but I didn’t mind when Mr. Caldwell placed his hands on mine to help me through the opening notes of Für Elise.

Look at me, daydreaming yet again about how things might’ve been different had I made different choices. I trace my fingers along the piano’s lid. There’s a fine layer of dust. I don’t even remember the last time anyone played it. Maybe never.

The mystery phone sits there like a secret, screen dark.

Maybe I should take it back.

It almost feels like stealing to keep it. Maybe that’s why my mind wanders.

No. I’ll wait. Someone will call. I’ll find out who it belongs to, and then I’ll return it. That’s the responsible thing to do. That’s what I’d want someone else to do if they found my phone in the woods.

I get up and move to the window. The valley beyond is shrouded in low fog. I get this feeling, almost like I’m being watched.

Buzz.

The sound comes from the piano.

Buzz.

I walk back over to it. The phone vibrates once more. The screen lights up, a single notification:

“Kumanji: A Sensual Adventure Game. Fun for some, but not for all. NOTE: Read instructions carefully. BEGIN?”

I pick it up. It unlocks again by facial recognition. So weird. On the home screen there’s an app I don’t remember seeing earlier. Its icon is a deep red K on a black background, like lipstick pressed into crushed velvet.

Kumanji. Weird name.

I tap the screen. A splash page opens. There’s a jungle background — vines, palms, soft golden light. The title pulses once.

“One player detected.”

The screen flashes. A whisper, faint but distinct, comes from the phone’s tiny speaker.

“Welcome, Judy.”

I freeze. Did it just say my name? Something about the air feels different. My throat feels dry. I have this feeling in my stomach, that hollow trepidation I used to get during Mr. Caldwell’s piano lessons.Why am I thinking about him again?

This is insane. I’m not playing some random app on some random phone that just appeared out of nowhere. I put the phone down. I put the phone down. I’ll take it back where I found it.

Except I don't.

Buzz.

“Begin?” A message pops up.

The thing is, I want to know. It’s ridiculous, I know. It’s just an app. Maybe a prank. Some viral marketing stunt. Maybe a film crew will barge in at any moment, ready to capture my stunned reaction.

But somehow I know it's not a prank or a stunt. Something about this feels personal.

Get a grip, Judy.

Buzz.

I pick up the phone in a flash.

"Begin?"

My thumb hovers over the screen. It’s so quiet. I tell myself I’ll just see what happens. Just for a second. Just a peek.

My thumb presses the button.

Then everything shifts. The house, the air, the light.

What have I gotten myself into?