'What do you mean stale?' Isabella shouted across the bedroom. She emerged from the bathroom, tying up her thick black hair with the ferocity someone might use to load a shotgun. Michael kept his bright, cool eyes on Isabella's, such a dark brown they nearly looked black against her pupils. He spoke in his slow, measured way, as Isabella changed into scuffy pyjamas, the nice underwear she was planning on wearing, discarded to the en suite floor.
'Honey-bunny....' He started, before, with a hiss of breath, Isabella raised an index finger, 'Don't you use pet names on me!'
Michael waited a beat, and then continued, 'It's not you. I just want to try something new, something different.'
Isabella had been tightly wound, ready to respond to any personal attack, but as usual, Michael's careful, easy responses disarmed her anger, and left her feeling rather foolish. She moved forward in silence and sat on the edge of their bed. Michael couldn't help but gaze, even with her hair tied back with a bright purple scrunchie, her usually elaborate makeup removed, and dressed in an old T-shirt and some shorts, she still radiated beauty and warmth.
Isabella was the daughter of a first generation immigrant family, who had come to the states from across the border to live the American dream. Isabella was the first to go to College, where the two had met, and their personalities, despite their differences, worked well for each other. Isabella was fiery, outspoken, quick to anger and forgive, and Michael was cool headed, stoic and took his time with nearly everything. Their relationship blossomed, and they were happy.
Isabella sniffled, her big doe eyes were looking at the floor, and Michael's arm smoothed over her shoulder and across her chest. He pulled her against him, his skin looking even paler than normal against her own, deep brown. She leaned back into his touch, her voice was quieter now, and she toyed with the sheets underneath her, plucking and twisting them.
'You still find me sexy, right?'
Michael chuckled, and Isabella was about to launch into another tirade, when he took her chin, turned her head, and kissed her adoringly. She melted into the touch of the man she loved, her pear shaped figure relaxing into him.
They drew back from the kiss, Michael's eyes soft, Isabella's were dreamy, and her plump lips hung slightly open. He kissed her forehead, which made her smile.
'Of course I do.' He said softly, hand moving down to squeeze one wide hip, 'How could I not?'
She smirked to herself and flicked his nose, 'So, something new?'
Michael, in a move very much out of character, hesitated. This only increased Isabella's curiosity. She shifted to face him, as her usually unshakable partner fiddled nervously with his hands, eyes casting around the room.
Eventually, with gentle encouragement, and steady patience as Michael fumbled and struggled to find the words, the truth came out. As Michael explained what he wanted to try, and it was a fair few steps away from what most couples would call "spicing up the bedroom", Isabella's meticulously styled eyebrows rose steadily up her forehead. When Michael had finally finished, there was an achingly long silence. He had expected her to laugh, or give a firm no, but silence was far from unusual for her.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded. 'I'll think about it.' And with that, she kissed his cheek, and fell onto her side of the bed.
The next day it was as if nothing had happened. Isabella was her normal, grouchy morning self, not willing to budge until the coffee was done and she had an acceptable amount of time to stay wrapped up in blankets and glare at her clock.
They shared their usual pre-work kiss before setting off to their separate jobs, Isabella taking the bus, and Michael driving. He couldn't get her reaction out of his mind, and even now, the ambiguity plagued him.
As the week progressed, and the weekend drew nearer, he was tempted to ask again, but he knew Isabella wasn't one to just let a topic disappear. If she said she was thinking about it, she was thinking about it.
Friday night had finally come, Michael drove home, weary and looking forward to a quiet night in, and just as he pulled onto the kerb outside their apartment, his phone buzzed. He checked it, expecting a message from Isabella saying her bus was going to be late, or what she wanted for dinner, but what he couldn't have anticipated, was directions to a bar he didn't recognise.
Frowning at the glowing light of his phone in the darkness of his car, Michael felt something inside of him thrum with excitement. Without messaging her to ask for some context, he turned the car's engine over, and pulled out onto the road.
The city welcomed him back inside its neon lit bosom, as Michael turned up and around unfamiliar streets. The bar turned out to be a pool and snooker setup, announcing its existence in large, flickering letters.
He stepped into the murky room, despite its seed appearance, it was a welcoming atmosphere. It was loud too, with the sounds of the jukebox and speakers drowned out by multiple conversations and people yelling over the space. Michael peered over the top of the crowd, and spied Isabella from afar. She was sitting at the counter, he could only see her side-profile, but she seemed to be nursing a low glass.
Michael slid, pushed and ducked through the busy pool tables and people jolly with drink and the knowledge that the next two days were their own to waste. He finally reached Maria, and went to speak when he finally saw what she was wearing, and the words caught in his throat.
In the artificial light of the bar, she looked like the picture of sinful, urban temptation. She wore denim jeans so short that the pockets stuck out against her thighs, a bright pink thong rose from the back, and she wore a crop top to finish the piece, something he hadn't seen since their party days. He was struck by how much of her figure was on show, she had always been bottom heavy, and now it looked like the tiny denim shorts were about to rip at the seams. Her makeup was also suitably dramatic, black eyeshadow made her eyes smoke in the low light, and brighter lipstick drew the eye to her soft, welcoming mouth. She had adorned herself in chunky bracelets and eye-catching ear studs, glittering in the dim. She caught his eye, smiled, in a way that made his suit pants feel far too tight, and beckoned him over. Next to her was a small, dark red clutch, one he recognised buying her for a birthday.
