The Lipstick and the Lies

In the mirror, my eyes were sunken, blue stubble creeping across my chin. Married for three years, Lydia Collins always carried a faint scent of gardenia soap. Whenever she hugged me from behind, that fragrance made me feel secure and at ease. This morning, as she turned to grab her coat, an unfamiliar perfume suddenly drifted into my nostrils. The scent was sweet and cloying, tinged with powdery notes—completely at odds with her usual understated style. On the bathroom sink lay a new lipstick, dazzlingly bright—a 'seductive red' shade—still unopened. She had never worn makeup before, always insisting that natural was best, even considering lipstick superfluous. "There's a department dinner tonight; I'll be home late." Her voice came through the security door, carrying a hint of haste. This was already the fifth "dinner" this month. She used to always come home on time, saying the outside food was heavy with oil and salt, and that she only liked the tomato scrambled eggs I made. It was one o'clock in the morning, yet the living room light was still on. I sat on the sofa, pressing the remote control repeatedly, but couldn't focus on anything. Her mobile phone flashed at the other end of the sofa. I walked over and unlocked it with my fingerprint — something we set up when we got married, agreeing to be honest with each other. The pinned chat box's avatar is an artificial human face. The latest message came from the other party: "The dress you wore today is beautiful." Her reply appeared immediately: "Too bad you can't touch it." My fingertips suddenly grew cold, the chill spreading through my limbs and spine. Scrolling up, the chat history seemed endless. Those explicit words wrapped around me like vines, tightening my throat. "I want to see you without your clothes on." "Next time, I'll send you a video." Each obscene phrase pierced my eyes with pain. I stepped back, my heart pounding wildly in my chest, the force striking my ribs with a sharp ache. The light from the mobile screen cast my distorted face—how could the woman I have loved for so many years become like this?