Chapter 2: Under the Table

Chapter 2: Under the Table

The bowling alley was a symphony of manufactured fun, a cacophony of crashing pins, cheesy 80s rock, and the hollow laughter of strangers. To Chris, it sounded like the soundtrack to his own damnation. He followed Hazel through the automatic doors, the stale air thick with the smell of cheap beer and floor wax. The flashing lights and vibrant colors felt like a physical assault, a garish mockery of the sterile, monochrome life he was trying to escape.

Across the sprawling space, he saw them. Sam stood with his shoulders slightly slumped, looking handsome but worn thin, a man perpetually drained by a life Chris couldn't comprehend. And beside him, Avery. She was a slash of vibrant color in the dim lighting, wearing a simple red top that seemed to absorb and amplify the energy of the room. When her eyes met his, a tiny, conspiratorial smile touched her lips for less than a second before vanishing. It was a silent acknowledgment of the bomb they had placed in the center of the room, daring each other to see if it would detonate.

“There they are,” Hazel said, her voice crisp and devoid of any real enthusiasm. She moved with her usual composed grace, an island of cool elegance in a sea of polyester shirts and rented shoes. Chris felt a familiar pang of resentment. She looked at the scene with the detached air of a critic, while he felt like he was about to be devoured by it.

The initial greetings were a masterclass in suburban politeness, a carefully choreographed dance of lies.

“Hazel! You look stunning,” Avery gushed, embracing his wife in a way that seemed both genuine and predatory.

“Avery. Sam. So good of you to suggest this,” Hazel replied, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

Chris shook Sam’s hand, the man’s grip firm but brief, his gaze already drifting toward the bar. “Sam. How’s work?”

“The usual,” Sam said, a tired sigh clinging to the edges of the words. “A fire that only I can put out.”

They were led to their lane, a cramped booth with a sticky plastic table wedged between two others. As they sat, Chris found himself opposite Avery, with their respective spouses flanking them. The setup was perfect, a four-person firing squad. He felt exposed, every nerve ending tingling with a mixture of terror and anticipation. This was her idea, her grand stage, and he was the lead actor who hadn’t learned his lines.

The small talk started, as stilted and awkward as he’d imagined. Sam described a tedious legal case, his voice a low monotone that seemed to get swallowed by the noise of the alley. Hazel countered with an anecdote about a new marketing campaign, her words precise and professional. They were like two diplomats from opposing, uninteresting countries, exchanging pleasantries while the world burned around them.

Chris felt a phantom vibration, a hum of energy that had nothing to do with the alley and everything to do with the woman across from him. He watched her, his observational skills on high alert. He saw the way she listened patiently to Hazel, nodding in all the right places, her expression one of rapt attention. A total performance. No one, least of all his wife, would ever suspect the feral hunger that lay beneath that charming facade.

Then he felt it.

A subtle, ghost-like pressure against his ankle.

His entire body went rigid. He didn't dare look down. He knew, with absolute certainty, it was her. He lifted his gaze from the table and met her eyes. She was in the middle of asking Sam if he wanted another beer, her face a mask of wifely concern. But her eyes—those piercing, knowing eyes—held him captive. They glittered with the dangerous thrill she’d promised, a silent question hanging between them: Are you in?

His heart hammered against his ribs. He could pull his foot away, end this insane game before it truly began. It would be the sensible thing to do, the act of a man with a shred of self-preservation. But he remembered her words in the sun-drenched bedroom, the promise to feel alive. This was it. This was the precipice.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his foot back against hers.

Avery’s smile didn’t change, but he saw a flicker of triumph in her eyes. The contract was sealed. The real conversation, the only one that mattered, had begun.

The drone of their spouses’ voices faded into the background noise of the alley. The world shrank to the space under the table, a secret territory only they occupied. Her foot, now freed from its shoe, slid up his leg, the warmth of her skin a shocking intimacy through the thin fabric of his jeans. He held his breath, certain Hazel would notice the tension in his jaw, the sweat beading on his forehead. But Hazel was staring at the scoreboard, her expression blank, lost in a world of her own.

His turn to bowl. He stood, his legs unsteady, the memory of her touch burning on his skin. He felt clumsy and disconnected from his own body as he selected a ball. He was an architect; he understood physics, angles, momentum. But as he released the ball, it veered pathetically into the gutter.

“Tough break, Chris,” Sam commented without looking up from his phone.

Chris walked back to the table, his face hot with embarrassment, but as he passed Avery, she whispered, “Too distracted?” so softly that only he could hear. The taunt was an aphrodisiac.

Back at the table, the game escalated. He dared to hook his ankle around hers, a silent claiming. She responded by tracing lazy circles on his shin with her toes. It was more illicit, more electrifying than any of their passionate afternoons. The sheer risk of it, the proximity of discovery, was a drug. He was getting high on it.

A plate of greasy nachos arrived. As Hazel reached for a chip, Sam suddenly dropped his napkin.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

In a flash of pure panic, Chris jerked his leg back, breaking contact. His heart leaped into his throat. He looked at Avery. Her face was a perfect portrait of calm as she offered Hazel the sour cream.

Sam straightened up, napkin in hand, completely oblivious. “Clumsy me,” he said with that familiar, weary smile.

Chris’s eyes met Avery’s over the top of Sam’s head. There it was again—not just a thrill, but a shared look of victory, of pure, adrenaline-fueled conspiracy. They had survived a near-miss. They were a team.

The riskier it got, the more he wanted. The fear was no longer a deterrent; it was the entire point.

When they sat down again after the final frame, Avery did something so brazen it stole the air from his lungs. Under the table, hidden from view, her foot slid slowly, deliberately up the inside of his thigh, the pressure intimate and unmistakable. It was a silent, primal act of possession, a claiming of him right there, just inches from his wife.

Chris felt a jolt, a surge of pure, unadulterated lust so powerful he thought he might make a sound. He risked a glance at Hazel. She was frowning at her phone, her thumb scrolling endlessly. He looked at Sam, who was rubbing his temples, the exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. They were there, but they were absent, ghosts at their own table.

In that moment, Chris understood. Avery hadn't just invited him to a double date. She had invited him into her world, a world where you didn't run from danger, you courted it. You danced with it under the table at a suburban bowling alley, and you let the thrill of it burn away everything else. He was no longer just a participant in this affair; he was an addict, and she was his drug of choice.