My name is Mrs. Alta Bose ( Ālatā bōs). I am a 28-year-old Bengali woman employed as a night-shift representative at a multinational bank's call center. I have been married for seven years to Mr. Ronnie Bose, who is 32 years old and works as an architect. His profession requires frequent travel and day shifts, resulting in our schedules rarely aligning.

Our preferences diverge in several respects, including cuisine and entertainment. Nevertheless, we have reached consensus on two significant matters: prioritizing financial security for early retirement and postponing parenthood indefinitely.

Due to our contrasting work schedules, opportunities for quality interaction are scarce. Initially, both of us felt the absence of shared time; however, we eventually adapted to the situation. On weekdays, despite sharing living quarters, our direct interactions are typically limited to one or two hours.

Over time, our conversations became increasingly routine and lacked engagement. As Ronnie became more absorbed in his professional commitments, I also concentrated on developing new skills to advance within my organization. Our daily lives grew predictable, and our intimacy diminished, resulting in dissatisfaction and a noticeable decline of physical affection.

The situation changed following my promotion to customer relationship manager. In this capacity, I assumed direct responsibility for specific clients, including Mr. William Saxton, a wealthy, middle-aged American. Initially, our discussions remained strictly professional. However, Mr. Saxton soon began offering personal compliments, expressing interest in meeting in person. I clarified that I was based in Kolkata, India, and that a substantial distance separated us.

Despite this, Mr. Saxton persisted, eventually requesting my personal phone number. I explained the bank’s regulations, which prohibit sharing personal contact information with clients. Nevertheless, he emphasized that I already possessed his personal details, and he encouraged me to contact him via platforms such as WhatUp, FaceBond, or InstaGlobe should I reconsider.

I responded politely, indicating that I would consider his suggestion, while maintaining professional boundaries.

Unlike my husband, Ronnie, who maintains a notable distance from social media—almost as if it represents some vaguely menacing institution—I am quite engaged on those platforms.

It was, therefore, not surprising that I soon received a friend request from an unfamiliar account: BillSaxton.

I refrained from responding to the request immediately. Still, the event elicited a notable sense of excitement and curiosity within me, presenting a striking contrast to the monotony that often characterizes routine life.

Simultaneously, I remained cognizant of my marital status. Yet, I could not ignore the growing sensation of being undervalued and the creeping dissatisfaction that accompanied it. Somewhere in my subconscious, a sense of self, previously diminished, began to re-emerge—perhaps even glow. The attention implied by William Saxton’s gesture had an undeniable effect: it made me feel distinctive, and I found myself increasingly drawn toward it.

Recognizing the need to discuss these developments, I chose to confide in my friend Rimi Shaw. Rimi, who operates a beauty parlor from her residence, is an outspoken advocate for polyamory and women’s empowerment, often challenging conventional norms regarding relationships and sexuality. She is bisexual herself. (God, I know how I came to know about this).

Over time, we have developed a close rapport, facilitated by my regular visits to her establishment, "Rimi’s Makeover," which she manages from the ground floor of her home. She possesses an unusual gift for making others feel at ease and fostering openness.

Despite our closeness, I had to summon considerable resolve before initiating this particular conversation.

It was my day off, and, as is typical, my husband was away at work. I was aware that afternoons, especially after lunch and before evening, tend to be less busy at the parlor. The weather, characteristically humid and hot for Kolkata just before monsoon, made the journey uncomfortable, but my internal restlessness compelled me to go.

Once inside "Rimi’s Makeover," the air-conditioned environment offered a stark and welcome relief. Fortuitously, Rimi was alone. I requested a pedicure and, gradually, began to share aspects of my recent experiences—starting with innocuous topics, such as a recent promotion and notable customer interactions.

Throughout, Rimi listened attentively, maintaining eye contact and responding only with occasional nods while continuing her work.

Eventually, I confided in her about the recent attention I had received from a client—how he had taken an interest in my voice and mannerisms during our calls, and how this attention, though subtle, felt meaningful. Initially, I withheld his name, feeling it unwise to make the situation too explicit.

Nevertheless, I eventually disclosed that it was William Saxton—a man from another continent who, through brief professional exchanges, made me feel more recognized than my husband did at home.

I anticipated a teasing remark or skepticism from Rimi, but she offered none. Her steady touch conveyed reassurance, as if she had anticipated this disclosure. I proceeded to explain the social media friend request, my hesitation to accept it, and my curiosity about his profile, which aligned with the professional records I had seen—he appeared to be in his mid-forties.

I admitted to repeatedly viewing his profile photo, contemplating whether to reach out directly. He, I believed, remained unaware of my appearance. I also confessed to subtle changes in my behavior—applying lipstick before evening work and prolonging our conversations. The sound of my own laughter, previously unfamiliar, had returned, signifying an awakening of aspects of myself that had long been dormant.

I said all this to her not so she would offer advice. I did not so much as want permission. I only wanted someone to witness it, to hold it, perhaps, without dropping it or making it shameful.

Rimi never interrupted. She did not even lean back until I was done, her head cocked in that thoughtful manner of hers. She did not ask me what I was going to do, nor did she label it cheating. As a matter of fact, she did not label it anything.

She just asked to see my phone and looked at the profile picture of ‘BillSaxton,’ and before I could even react, she clicked on the ‘Accept Friend’ icon.

I squealed, “What did you just do?”

 Rimi said, “What I did was exactly what you needed.”

I stared at the screen for a second too long after she did it. She did it so decisively, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to accept a stranger into the folds of my secret life. I did not stop her. I did not even flinch. That is what unnerved me the most.

I should have said no. I should have snatched the phone back, made a joke, and laughed it off. But I did not. Was Rimi right in deciding that 'that was just what I needed?'

Then Rimi turned my phone into the silent mode. There would be no chimes of notifications or ringers for calls. 

Rimi leaned closer to me and whispered into my ear, "Go back to your house; go back to your chores. It is still afternoon in India, and the sun has not yet risen in America. After dinner make sure that you take the initiative to make love to your husband, and remember to spread your legs wide apart. Once he is peacefully sleeping, go to the other room, turn on the TV, and only then check your phon If by any chance Ronnie wakes up, tell him you could not sleep, so you were watching TV."

I settled the bill, and we hugged. Rimi winked at me as I left.

Rimi, the bitch! I smiled as anticipation and excitement bubbled inside me. She surely knows how to get things done!

The sun was red in the west and was setting. It will be morning in America soon!

The rest of the evening unfolded exactly as Rimi wanted it to be. I kept the phone aside in the living room. Then I deliberately get myself busy with the household chores. I tried engaging myself in conversations with my husband. I asked him about his day. He was very passionate about architecture. He has started to give details of his work and how he is planning to work on efficiency.

We retreated to our bedroom, and I realized that I had been keeping my thoughts away from my phone; however, the temptation to take a peek and curiosity about the response regarding the accepted friend request was gradually becoming unbearable. 

This was uncharted territory for me, so I tried to focus on Rimi's words. While my husband and I were making love, my thoughts were drifting and forming an image of William Saxton. 

Lately, sex between me and my husband had become monotonous and somewhat routine. However, this time, with the whirlwind of thoughts in my head, I spread my legs a little further apart. It felt quite different.

I must have fallen asleep too. Suddenly I woke up and found my husband, Ronnie, fast asleep. I cautiously freed myself from his embrace and pulled over a nightgown and then started to tiptoe to the living room, where I had kept my phone.

Before I got out of the door, I glanced back at my husband one more time. He was still fast asleep, unaware of the anticipation and excitement brewing in my mind.

 I looked at the watch and calculated if it's 1:30 AM in India, it's 1:00 PM the previous day in California.

I settled myself on the sofa and turned the TV on and kept the volume very low, and then I started to scroll through my phone.

The first thing that I noticed was the notification icon; it read '99+'. It appeared that Mr. William Saxton was still scrolling through my posts on social media, and then my WhatsUp icon got lit up. It was from an unknown number from the United States. I knew it was William Saxton. Social media friends have access to my private number. Rimi is a bitch indeed!

WhatsUp Chat – 1:43 AM IST

William:

Hi Alta. Or should I say… Mrs. Bose?

(Smiling emoji) 😊

I hope this isn’t too forward. But I had a feeling you'd check your phone tonight.

Alta:

Who is this?

William:
Oh come on… I think you know very well who this is. The man who has been waiting since the day you increased my credit card limit over the telephone with that lovely voice of yours.
Alta:
Mr. Saxton. that's not permitted. I could get in trouble.

William:
Then I'm flattered you were willing to take the chance. That makes you a little curious. or a little bad. I'm not sure which I find more attractive.
Alta:
You shouldn't talk like that.
William:
Why not? I meant every word.
And don't pretend like this is a complete shock. You had to know I'd find a way to get to you. You left the door halfway open, sweetie. I just walked in.
Alta:
I'm… being polite. That's all.

William:
Polite doesn't include putting on lipstick just to take a call, does it?
Alta: thinking how did he know? Was it a wild guess?
(typing.)
(then deletes the message)

William:

You want to know something crazy?

I’ve seen you before.

Alta:

What? No. That’s not possible. It is not a video call that we have had.

William:
Oh, but it is. A few months ago, your bank published a congratulatory piece. "Meet Our Rising Leaders in India."
There you were. In a maroon saree.
You had your arms crossed but your long hair and captivating eyes betrayed you.
Alta:
You remembered that?
William:
I printed it. That's how I was able to confirm your ID out of the several that popped up in my search on social media.

Don’t be shocked. I collect rare art too.

(Devilish emoji)

Alta:
You are flirting with a married woman, Mr. Saxton.
William:
You say that like you're reminding me.
Are you reminding yourself?
Alta:
I think this conversation should end now. Good night.
William:
Fair enough. But just remember...
In your voice, I heard laughter before I saw your picture.
And now that I've seen both, I can't forget either.
Sleep well, Mrs. Bose.

I woke up early the following morning and made breakfast for my husband, Ronnie. He was going to work, and he won't be returning until late at night. At quarter to seven in the morning, Ronnie had already gone to work. I showered, dried myself, and emerged from the bathroom wearing a bathrobe and my long hair wrapped in a towel on my head.

I glanced around. The house was vacant, and then, as if I was surrendering to some sort of temptation, I picked up the phone and began to gaze vacantly at the wall, and I began to think, 'Why did I let him in? What exactly did Rimi awaken in me? A curiosity? Hunger?

He had seen that photo? That dumb bank picture with my fake smile and anxious eyes and loose hair arranged in front above my shoulder? And yet, he not recalled it, but had it printed?!

I should block him. That's what a good wife would do.

But what has "good" do for me so far? A vacant bed? Perhaps one-hour talks, and cold dinners reheated twice? Why does a stranger's praise sound more true than my husband's caress?

The phone chimed again. Yes, it was a text from William Saxton. All of a sudden, I began to feel quite naked and exposed, yet simultaneously curious and aroused-sexually.

WhatUp Chat – 7:12 AM IST

William:
Good morning, Bengal.
Did I offend you last night? Or did I just… stir something?

Alta:
You should really stop texting me.

William:
Should.
Such a heavy word. Full of duties, guilt, and chains.

But… do you want me to stop?

Alta:
I don’t know.
I’m just confused.

William:
You have every right to be.
You’re not used to being seen, Alta. Not the real you.

Alta:
You don’t know the real me.

William:
That’s not true. I know what longing sounds like.
I heard it in your voice...between the lines you read.
You were always professional. But something leaked through. That’s what drew me in.

Alta:
You’re not making this easy.

William:
It’s not supposed to be easy.
Beautiful things never are.

But I’ll stop—if that’s truly what you want.

...

(No reply from Alta for several minutes)

William:
Or maybe… we just stop pretending this is all about credit card limits and call center protocols.

I did not reply. I will not. Not yet.

But my hands were trembling, and there’s this rush in my chest...as if something locked inside for years is suddenly stretching its limbs.

I wish I could tell Ronnie… but I already knew what he would say.

He would nod. He would tell me to get some sleep. He would not ask why I sound… different.

But William did. William asked. William noticed. And right now, I don’t know if that’s my sin… or my salvation.

I did not reply. I will not. Not yet.

But I saved his number under the name CaptainAmerica. No space, no punctuation. Like a code. Like a secret.

I told myself it was only to keep track… but deep down, I knew I had given him a name in my world. A small space, just his.

In the afternoon, Rimi had already engaged to take me to the wholesale market from where she procures her products for the beauty parlor. All that I needed was just to speak. And I would know that she would get me...maybe too much so that I feel this is the time when I should do it.

It was hot once more. Kolkata's monsoon flirted with the skies, but as per the weather news, the monsoon would be bursting down in about a week or so. My skin seemed to be keeping its breath. Much like me.

We hail an Uber cab to get to the wholesale market. In the cab, I could sense that Rimi had been keeping her wonder like a bottle of champagne. Once we began to drive, it all came out, she said nonchalantly, her voice flirting. "Let me guess… he texted?"

I collapsed into the cushioned cab seat, not sure where to begin. I paused, then nodded.

"Twice," I confessed.

She didn't rush me. She never did. So, she leaned in until we were almost touching, her bangles softly clinking, and waited.

"I did not respond the way he had expected," I told her.

"Really?" Rimi raised an eyebrow.

"But you read his messages, right?" she prodded gently.

"Yes."

"And…" Rimi raised an eyebrow.

I gazed at my hands. "I saved his number."

"Under what name?" She asked.

"Bill Saxton. No space."

Rimi's eyes sparkled as her grin spread.

"That's not saving a number, Alta," she said, curling up next to me. "That's naming it. You've assigned him space in your world. A corner in your brain. Maybe even a drawer in your heart."

I parted my lips to dispute her, but the words refused to come out.

"It doesn't mean anything," I said at last, half-heartedly.

Rimi set a hand on mine: cool, firm, earthy.

It means something, darling. If it didn't, you wouldn't be sitting here with that look in your eyes. You wouldn't be shaking like someone who's just remembered how to feel."

I clamped my mouth shut. "I don't know what I'm doing, Rimi. He's brash. He remembers things I didn't even catch myself. And when he speaks, it's as though he's unlocking something I had buried deep inside. It frightens me.

Rimi leaned back in her seat, head cocked to one side, eyes gentle now, voice barely above a whisper. "Because it's real. Because he sees you, not as a wife who cooks dinner at ten, not as the voice behind the headset, but as a woman. When was the last time someone made you feel that?"

I looked at her, unable to help myself. "I don't remember."

She nodded slowly, as if she already knew the answer.

"That's why it matters," she said. "That feeling? That butterflies in your stomach, the way you keep looking at your phone even though you promise you won't? That's yours, Alta. It's your body remembering you're alive."

I averted my gaze. "But I'm married. I took vows. I don't want to become someone I don't know."

Rimi cupped my chin and tilted my face softly towards hers. "Listen to me. You're not cheating. Not yet. You're just waking up. And no one gets to shame you for that, not even your own conscience."

Her voice grew softer. "Don't respond to him if you're not ready. But don't feign you are not affected. That would be the actual lie. Allow yourself to feel. Allow yourself to desire. You've earned that much."

She smiled. "And in case you ever do come around to answering, you know precisely what color lipstick to wear."

I couldn't help but laugh. That's the way Rimi always played it. She gave me my truth, swathed in silk and mischief. Rimi and I had our hair tied up in a bun to combat the heat. She led the way with an easy confidence that made me feel a little more at home in the chaos.

While Rimi shopped for her essentials, I helped her. It didn't take long before I caught the tiny changes in the way people looked as we passed. A quick glance one way, a slow look another. There was no denying that we were attracting interest.

The sky hadn't yet opened up, but it would. Soon.

I went back to the silence of the house. I was the good old housewife once again. I ironed and folded the last of Ronnie's shirts into the closet, cleaned the kitchen counter spotless twice, and at last let the silence engulf me.

The house was as it always was after dinner: a distant hum of traffic, a dripping faucet in some corner of the bathroom, and Ronnie's voice muffled behind the bedroom door as he answered yet another work call.

I sat on the couch with my knees under me, phone balanced on my thigh like a burden I wasn't quite sure I wished to remove.

The screen was dark. But the name was glowing somewhere in me.

I tapped it.

For hours, the final message had remained unread:

"Or perhaps we should just quit acting like this is just about call center procedures and credit card limits."

I spent a lot of time looking at the blinking cursor. Then I started typing slowly.
"That's not how you should talk to me."

I stopped, deleted it, and gave it another go.

"Do you flirt with your relationship managers all the time?"

A grin pulled at my mouth. However, I also deleted it.

Too much fun, but I did not give up yet.

I gave it yet another go.

"I looked at your profile. You look just like I thought you would.”

No! I deleted it. It was too straightforward and too authentic.

With a racing heart, I put the phone down.

I got to my feet. walked over to the window. Gazed out into the alley, where a lone cat prowled the wall like a shadow and the wind rustled through drying clothes. I shivered even though I wasn't cold.

I sat back on the couch and reopened the chat window.

My fingers began to shake as I typed.

"I'm not sure what you're asking of me."

I moved my cursor over the send button.

The seconds passed. The fan creaked overhead. I could hear my heartbeat clearly.

Then, I secured the phone. Let it drop next to me. I covered my face with my hands. I failed to respond. 

I plugged in my phone for charging, and I realized I was tired too. However, my body was already lying to me; it was warm in places it had forgotten to sense. I breathed shallowly. My mouth gets parched. I pictured his response. How quickly. How bold.

I also knew deep down that this silence wouldn't last forever.

Finally, I got up and took my panties off to find some solace with Ronnie in the bedroom. But he was fast asleep already.

For a moment, I stood still, my heart heavier than I had anticipated, the air rubbing against my bare thighs.

His sound sleep made me a bit jealous. Still, I climbed in next to him. I gently pressed my body against his in the hopes that he might move and draw me in without opening his eyes. However, he remained motionless. The storm swirling inches away from him had no effect on his deep, steady breath.

I was lying on my back with my gaze focused on the ceiling. Half disappointed, half yearning, I could still feel the warmth between my legs. A query with no response.

The man I had vowed to live for slept beside me like a stranger.

To be continued