It was Christmas Eve, and all I could think about was Lani. Even as I sat with my three children, her memory felt like a silhouette standing between us. When my wife spoke to me, I found myself staring blankly at the wall, my mind miles away.
Our home was a whirlwind of activity. Relatives were coming for lunch, gifts were being wrapped, and the kitchen was a hive of preparation for Nochebuena.
I sat outside, lost in a daydream. I wondered what Lani was doing at that exact moment. Was she still at the spa, working the final hours of the holiday shift? Was she at home, helping her mother care for her father? Or was she out with her boyfriend, enjoying the holiday in a way I wished she was with me?
My wife’s voice suddenly cut through my thoughts, sharp and upset. “Hey! What are you doing out here? You haven’t helped with anything all morning!”
I blinked, trying to snap back to reality. “Sorry, hon,” I said reflexively.
“Sorry? What is wrong with you?” she countered. “You’ve been in a trance all week. Are you daydreaming about the past? Where is your head?”
The guilt of my secret thoughts turned into a sudden, defensive anger. “Lower your voice,” I snapped, standing up. “It’s Christmas. Why are you yelling?”
“Because you’re physically here, but you’re not present!” she cried out.
The pressure of the last few days—the obsession with Lani, the secrecy, the exhaustion at work—all came to a boiling point. I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the house, my voice low and shaking with frustration. “I said lower your voice! Can’t I have a moment of peace? Work has been a pressure cooker, and I come home to more nagging!”
“Stop it! You’re being too rough!” she resisted, her eyes wide with shock.
Our children started to cry, their voices rising in a panicked wail. “Dad! Mom! What’s happening?”
“Go to your room! Now!” I commanded, my adrenaline red-lining. They scrambled away, terrified by the rare sight of my temper.
I led my wife upstairs to our room, the air thick with years of unspoken tension and my own internal conflict. We were both breathing hard, the argument reaching a fever pitch. In the heat of that chaotic, angry moment, the friction between us turned into a desperate, volatile kind of energy.
It wasn’t a moment of tenderness; it was a collision of frustration and suppressed emotion. I pulled her close, the anger and the longing for someone else blurring together into a rushed, intense encounter. In the dark of our room, I closed my eyes tight. As the world outside continued with the sounds of Christmas carols and family laughter, I lost myself in a frantic, silent fantasy, using the intensity of the moment to escape the reality of my own guilt.
When it was over, I was drenched in sweat, the silence of the room feeling heavier than the shouting had been. It was a wild, unexpected release—a dangerously exciting surge of adrenaline that left me feeling more confused than ever.
Mike m. luster 