Free The Hotwife Summer by Arnica Butler

search of Summer's white dress, but it was Rome, and it was summer, and every woman was beautiful and wearing a skirt that was caressing their legs.
    I threw myself down the subway steps like a drunk.
    As the windows filled and refilled with scenes of Rome and rock and Rome and rock, the train going in and out of the city's holes like Sandro would go in and out of my wife, I thought of what had just happened.
    Summer must have thought I decided to leave early.
    Now she was heading back to the house.
    What excuse had she given Sandro? What had she told him to get him out of the restaurant so quickly? How much had he wanted to fuck my wife that they took only seconds to pay the bill and disappear from the restaurant?
    My mind was spinning. How long had I been in the bathroom? Longer than I thought?
    Or was this a plan the two of them had made, was this all an elaborate ruse of Sandro's...to make me think I was pulling the strings, only to find out it was him all along? Maybe Summer was with him, helping him, cutting me open...
    I saw the ticket controllers making their way down the train, and realized I had no ticket. I got off one stop early, and spun wildly on the platform trying to decide if I should wait for the next train or run to the apartment.
    I felt like I had gone through a terrible time machine, one that worked like a washing machine and sloshed everything together. The street where Sabrina had lived was not far from here, looked like this one, and smelled the same.
    No, it didn't look like this. This was not the past. This was not the same thing.
    I started running again when I reached the quiet street where our apartment was. I fumbled with the outer lock, I threw the door open. Anyone seeing me might have called the police. I was wild, confused, drunk.
    I froze.
    I reached out, and took the sticky note from the stairwell door.
    It was, of course from Summer. The post-it was American in every way – Europeans did not deign themselves to leave post-its on doors. It was a bright orange, taken from our drawer. The color of my own notes for my research. There was little doubt that it was hers.
    Still, my mind tried to tell myself a thousand lies as I read it. This wasn't English (it was) and it wasn't her handwriting (it undoubtedly was).
    Remember your promise.
    I crumpled the note in my hand.
    The first flight of stairs: I ran. Fuck my promise. I promised before I knew it was Sandro she was going to fuck.
    The second flight, I walked.
    Did it matter that it was Sandro? It didn't matter to her. We were going to do this anyway. Nothing about our own arrangement had changed.
    The third flight of stairs, I was re-energized again by my hatred for Sandro, for the way he had so smugly stolen Sabrina right from under me.
    The last flight of stairs:
    Did I care about Sabrina? Sabrina was gone. If Sandro hadn't stolen Sabrina, I never would have met Summer.
    My face grew red with anger. But it was the way he had done it.
    I opened my palm and looked at the crumpled note.
    The thing was, and I didn't admit this to myself at the time of course – the thing was, I was grateful to have the note. The note made it so that I could avoid the real humiliation, and the darkest one: I was too afraid to stand up to Sandro, anyway.
    I took out my key, and slid it into the door silently. I turned the lock slowly, and with it my chest turned inside. Like I had swallowed a ball of molten lava.
    When the door clicked, it sounded like the clanging of the doors of the Vatican gates. I stopped, but my own heart, knocking against my chest, drowned out every other sound in the hallway.
    I placed my hand on the wood door. It was new, the landlord had told me several times, knocking on it and smiling with his ear to it, as though he was expecting something inside of it to answer him.
    I blinked away the memory of the landlord's smiling face.
    I pushed against the heavy wood, and stepped into the small foyer.
    Remember your promise.
    I stepped out