Why shouldn’t she have it too? The freedom. The rush of being wanted again, not just by the man she’d shared a mortgage and routine with for years. She loved him—she did—but love didn’t stop the hunger she felt. Love didn’t stop her from feeling like she was fading into a ghost of herself, laundry and bills and small talk about the weather.

She pictured it: different men, different lives. A glass of wine with someone who looked at her like she still had mystery left. A hotel room where she wasn’t just a wife, but a woman who still had power in her hands and fire in her skin. She told herself it wasn’t cheating. Cheating was full of lies. This—this would be honest. Open. Fair.

He’d understand, if I explain it right, she thought. He was modern. Rational. He’d read enough articles about “reinventing marriage” and “choosing happiness.” Maybe he’d even want it too. That was the fantasy: he’d thank her for being brave enough to say what he was too afraid to.

Still, she didn’t say it. Not right away. Not for years. Instead, she tested the edges of the idea in secret. She downloaded the app. She chose a picture where she looked casual, not desperate. She typed carefully into the blank space: Married. Curious. Looking for a connection. She stared at the words, wondering if they sounded confident or pathetic.

Messages came fast. Men who wanted her. Men who called her gorgeous, who didn’t care that she was “taken.” Every ping lit her up. It was proof she hadn’t disappeared, she was still worth pursuing, she could still start something with someone new, still make a choice that was hers alone.

But the longer she played with the messages, the more she felt the weight of what she hadn’t done: tell her husband. The secret made her pulse race in a way the men didn’t.

She stood at the kitchen counter one morning, coffee cooling in her hand, and rehearsed how it would sound. I’ve been thinking about us. About how to keep us alive, keep me alive. About trying something new.

He came in, tie crooked, distracted as always. She opened her mouth—then shut it.

Not yet. It's not the right time (again).

But she would. Eventually. She had to. She couldn’t live in the shadow of a life unlived forever. She had the profile. She had the proof. She just needed the nerve.

The words were almost ready to leave her lips, because the thoughts sure weren't going anywhere.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still in her heels, still in the cheap dress he liked her to wear. Her hands shook as she lit a cigarette. She didn't want to tell him, but she found the courage somewhere.

“I met someone,” she said finally, eyes on the floor.

The man in the chair didn’t look up. He was sharpening his trusty pocketknife, slow and deliberate. “Oh ya, that's nice. You meet lots of someones,” he said. “That’s the business.”

“Well, not like him,” she said. She blew smoke, watched it curl. “He’s different. He’s—like, normal. He’s got a job, a house. He said his wife left him and he's divorced, and he said I could stay with him. He really likes me for who I really am. He said I didn’t have to… you know. Not anymore.”

He looked at her, one eyebrow lifting. “Stay with him. Out in the suburbs? Little house, white fence, kids playing in the yard? You gonna be a housewife and all that. That the picture in your head?”

She nodded once. Her voice went small. “Why not? Why not me? Don’t I get a shot at something better?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes were cold and flat. “Better? You think you’re better? You’ve been on these streets too long, baby. Guys don’t wife up girls like you. They rent you. And when they’re tired, they send you back. What the fuck is wrong with you believing this shit?”

Her hand tightened around the cigarette. “He doesn’t see me that way. He said—”

“He said what he had to say to get his kicks. That’s all. Guys like him get off playing the fucking hero, then they get bored. You think he’s gonna want you when you’re sitting at his dinner table and the neighbors are whispering? When his kids start asking questions about how you met?”

Her throat worked, but no words came. She blinked hard, like she could wash the sting out of her eyes.

“I deserve more,” she whispered.

He chuckled, low and bitter. “No. You deserve what I give you. You deserve the roof over your head, the food in your stomach, and the smack that keeps you steady. Without me, you’re just another stray out there waiting to be chewed up.”

She dropped the cigarette, crushed it out with the heel of her shoe. “I could leave tonight. Pack my things, take a bus. You wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”

The knife stopped turning in his hand. His smile was thin as paper. “Try it, go ahead. See how long you'll last before you come back begging me to take you in.”

Silence stretched. The clock ticked, loud in the room. She breathed in through her nose, deep and shaky, and for a moment, she looked like she might stand. Like she might walk past him and out the door.

But she didn’t. She sat there, staring at the carpet, shoulders caving in.

The man leaned back in the chair, satisfied. “Ya, that’s right. You know where you belong.”

She nodded once, without really realizing it. Vulnerability washed over her face, followed by something harder, buried deep, like a spark that hadn’t gone out yet. But she stayed seated.

Outside, the streetlight flickered, buzzing against the night, and the suburbs faded from view.

“You got a light?” she asked.

He nodded, thumb rolling the cheap plastic lighter until it coughed out a flame. She leaned in, and he caught the scent of something floral, not cheap perfume but not expensive either. Something he couldn’t place.

“Thanks,” she said.

He shrugged, pocketed the lighter.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She blew smoke sideways, but she looked dead ahead. “Seline.”

He gave his own, though it didn’t matter. Names never mattered to her on nights like this.

“You from around here?” he asked.

“Close enough.” Her smile was small, tilted, like she knew something he didn’t. “And you?”

He told her about his apartment three subway stops away, about his dead-end job, about how the bar wasn’t his usual spot, but he had a buddy who ditched him last minute. She didn’t say much, just let him talk, nodding here and there. He realized he was filling the silence, like she was the one in charge of it.

“You’re cold,” she said finally, flicking ash to the ground.

“I’ve been worse.”

“You want to walk?”

He said, "Absolutely, I'd love to".

They left the bar behind, slipping into the side streets where the lamps buzzed and hummed and sometimes didn’t work at all. Storefronts shuttered, alleys slick with whatever the day had bled out. He followed her without thinking, the way you follow music you can’t quite hear.

“You always walk with strangers?” he asked.

She gave him a look, quick and cutting. “You followed me.”

“I guess I did.”

They passed a young homeless woman wrapped in rags, muttering to herself. Passed a couple arguing in a doorway. Passed a cop car parked with its lights off, two uniforms inside watching something on a phone. None of it mattered. Only her heels on pavement, steady and sharp.

“You don’t talk much,” he said.

“Why should I?”

He laughed nervously. “Guess I’m doing enough for both of us.”

“You are,” she said, and her smile this time was wider, almost kind, but not really.

When she stopped, it was under a broken streetlamp. The light sputtered, caught, went dim again. She turned toward him.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

“Should I be?”

“Maybe.”

Her hand came up, touched his cheek. He expected warmth but got something else—cold, not cool, the complete absence of heat. He felt it down his spine.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, because it was the only thing that made sense.

Her laugh was quiet. “No, I’m not.”

“Sure you are.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

She leaned in then, kissed him. It wasn’t wild or hungry, not the way he’d pictured it. It was gentle, almost tender. But he felt something leave him anyway, like she’d taken more than he gave. When she pulled back, he swayed.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Not that drunk, you're just a good kisser.”

“You should go home.”

“I don’t want to.” He said.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He looked at her, really looked. Her eyes weren’t glowing, no tricks of the light, nothing supernatural. Just eyes. But they held him in place all the same. She was magnetic.

“You are so different than anyone I've ever met. Who are you anyway?” he asked.

She smiled again, small and tilted, the way she had outside the bar. “I’m just a girl,” she said. “The rest you’ll figure out soon.”

And then she started walking, heels clicking away down the street.

He stood there under the broken lamp, watching her vanish into the dark veins of the city. He wanted to ask her where she was going. Why was she walking away?

He wanted to go with her. But he couldn't. He wasn't able to move and and he didn't know why. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out. His body felt lifeless, his energy expelled. He collapsed on the sidewalk and lay motionless.

The city hummed, same as always. Sirens, neon, a taxi coughing smoke. The world didn’t notice he was lighter than he’d been before.

Only she did.

That’s when the boys came.

They came loud, with the kind of confidence you only get when life’s always handed you seconds and thirds. Their sneakers cost more than her rent would’ve, if she still had any rent to pay.

“Yo, guys, look at this,” the tall one said, grinning. “Real life junkie street meat.”

They circled her, the way dogs do when they smell blood. They pulled out their new model phones, glowing like lighters in the dark. One crouched, phone angled low. “Say hi, baby. Show the camera those lips. Bet you’ve used ’em plenty.”

The others roared with laughter.

She turned her face, just barely, hair hanging like a curtain.

Another boy leaned close enough she could smell his cologne, sweet and nauseating. “You give it up for cash, huh? Is that how it works? Twenty bucks for a little tour in the alley?” He dangled a bill just out of reach, swaying it like bait.

Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t reach. She couldn't.

“Damn,” one of them said, snapping pictures. “Look at her eyes. Dead inside. That’s kinda hot in a fucked up way.”

The tallest one laughed. “Bet she’s done more guys than we’ve had beers tonight. Should we ask her rates, or maybe it's free?”

“Yeah, let's ask her,” another chimed in. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “How much to crawl into one of our beds, huh? Or how much for all of us?”

Their laughter was loud and cold.

She made a small sound, but couldn't utter a word. More like her throat just remembered how to move.

“Yo, she speaks!” one of them shouted. “Say it again, sweetheart. Give us something dirty for the clip.”

The phones caught everything—the close-ups, the flinches, the hollow stare.

One of them mimed undoing his belt, thrusting his hips while the others howled. “C’mon, girl, don’t act shy. Don’t tell me you’re saving yourself for marriage.”

She sat still. The only movement was her hand—shaking now, like maybe it would reach out for the twenty, maybe it would reach out to claw their eyes out, but then again, maybe it couldn’t.

Behind them all, the quiet one shifted nervously. He wasn’t filming. His hands stayed buried in his jacket pockets, jaw tight. He looked at her, and for a moment, there was something almost human in his eyes.

“Let's get out of here, guys,” he said.

The tall one snapped his head around. “Don’t be a little fucking bitch. It’s just a joke, we're just messing around. Look at her—she’s nothing. Nobody else is gonna help her, but we're helping right now, aren't we, sweetheart? We’re going to make her famous. That’s charity, dude.”

"Just give her the money and let's go." The quiet one said.

"Fuck that man, she don't get this for free. If she don't wanna play she don't get no pay." As he snapped the twenty back into his jeans pocket.

The quiet one looked down. He looked like he wanted to say more, but nothing came. He fell in line.

They finished up their show, posted their clips, and strutted off. Their laughter softened as she watched them walk away.

She wanted to scream, but she stayed on the curb, motionless, the glow of their phones still stinging her eyes. Whatever they thought was funny was already out there now for anyone and everyone to see, viral fodder, another brick in the wall of the world’s cruelty.

The quiet one glanced back once, just once, then kept walking, following the others.

And the city also moved on, indifferent.

Lately, I’ve been exploring crypto and Web3. I'm an OG Bitcoin guy, but have just gotten into the Web3 space, which I think is a fascinating technology that is a great space for writers and artists. So why not have some fun and combine the two? There is so much potential, even though most people don't know how it works or what it really is. I'm not even sure I do yet, so I'm mostly doing this for my own learning and development. If you happen to like it, let me know.

I’ll mostly share my short fiction and some story-based NFTs that I'll create for fun. I mostly explore themes around crime noir, unhappy endings, and the messy world we’re all living in — though I won’t stay in any one box for long - I don't really like genres that much, so I try to push the boundaries.

I’ll also be posting on Substack (for the exposure), but also on Paragraph, because I think Web3 needs more fiction writers stirring things up — not just chasing trends, but telling stories that matter.

I think this is just the beginning.

Feel free to say HELLO.