Party in the Pink

The text message came through at 9:47 PM. A photo of Pinky, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, holding a martini she'd never have ordered in a million years. Her caption read: *Having the best time! Miss you!*

I typed back *looks fun!* and tried to mean it.

Our apartment felt too quiet after that. I paced from the kitchen to the balcony and back, phone in hand like a rosary. The city lights blinked their indifference. Somewhere across town, my wife was at her company's annual holiday party, the one she'd been nervous about for weeks because she didn't know anyone well enough to feel comfortable, because she always felt like the new girl even after eight months at the marketing firm.

I'd offered to come as her plus-one. She'd kissed my cheek and said, "You'd be bored stiff, Tharanga. It's all shop talk and bad wine. I'll be home by eleven."

It was already past ten.

I opened the fridge, closed it, opened it again. Cracked a beer I didn't want. The television played something loud and meaningless. I turned it off.

Another message arrived at 10:23. This time a video, six seconds long. Pinky dancing. Not her usual silly, self-aware dance, the one she did in our living room to make me laugh. This was different. Slower. Her hips moving in a way I'd never seen in public. A man's hand appeared at the edge of the frame, resting on her lower back. The video cut off before I could see his face.

*Who's that?* I typed.

She didn't answer.

I called. It rang six times before going to voicemail.

I called again. Same thing.

My mind, that treacherous bastard, started building architecture out of nothing. A hand on her back. A slow dance. The martini she'd never order. Pinky was innocent in ways that made me love her and worry about her in equal measure. She trusted people. She saw the best in everyone, even when they didn't deserve it. Especially when they didn't deserve it.

At 10:51, she finally texted back: *Sorry! Phone died. Borrowed a charger from someone. Having so much fun. Don't wait up!*

Don't wait up.

Those three words sat in my chest like a stone.

I told myself I was being paranoid. That's what husbands do, right? We get jealous over nothing. We imagine betrayal in every late night, every unanswered call. Pinky loved me. She wore the ring I gave her, the one with the small diamond we'd picked out together at a pawn shop because it was all we could afford. She kissed me goodbye every morning. She left me notes on the bathroom mirror.

But she also left her phone charger at home. I could see it on the nightstand, still plugged into the wall.

So who was she borrowing a charger from?

I tried to remember the names of her coworkers. She'd mentioned a few over dinner. A woman named Sarah from accounting. A guy in IT who told bad puns. Her boss, Mr. Chen, who was strict but fair. None of them felt like threats. But I'd never met them. I'd never seen the office. I'd never been to the hotel where the party was happening, some boutique place downtown with a rooftop bar and rooms for out-of-town employees.

The rational part of my brain, the part that had built a life with this woman, kept saying: *She's fine. She's just having fun. She never gets to let loose. Let her have this.*

The other part, the part that had seen the video, kept replaying that hand on her back. The way her body moved. The way she didn't pull away.

I opened my laptop. Found the hotel's website. Looked at photos of the rooftop bar, the string lights, the city view. Imagined her there, surrounded by strangers, laughing at jokes I couldn't hear, drinking cocktails I didn't buy her.

At 11:15, I called one more time. It went straight to voicemail.

I left a message. Tried to keep my voice light. "Hey, babe. Just checking in. Hope you're having fun. Call me when you can."

Then I sat on the couch and waited.

The thing about waiting is that it turns you into someone you don't recognize. I became a detective in my own living room, analyzing every text she'd sent that night. The first photo, the flushed cheeks. Was that just alcohol? Or something else? The video, the dancing. Was that just fun? Or was it a performance for someone specific?

I thought about our wedding. Small ceremony, just family and close friends. Pinky cried when she said her vows. Not delicate tears, either. Full-on sobbing, mascara running, the whole mess. I'd laughed and cried with her. We'd promised each other forever.

Forever felt very far away right now.

At 11:42, a new message. A photo this time. Pinky sitting on a couch in what looked like a hotel room. A man beside her, his face partially visible. Dark hair, strong jaw, a smile that looked like it knew things. His arm was around her shoulders. Her head was tilted toward him. She was laughing.

The caption: *Made a new friend! His name is Marcus. He's hilarious!*

Marcus.

I didn't know a Marcus. She'd never mentioned a Marcus. Was he a coworker? A plus-one? A stranger she'd met at the bar?

I zoomed in on the photo. Looked at his hand on her shoulder. Looked at her eyes, slightly unfocused, her smile a little too wide. She was drunk. She was drunk and alone in a hotel room with a man I'd never heard of.

I typed: *Where are you?*

No response.

*Pinky, please call me.*

Nothing.

I called again. Voicemail.

I called the hotel. Asked for her room. The front desk said they couldn't give out guest information. I asked to be transferred to the rooftop bar. The bartender said the party had moved to a private suite hours ago.

A private suite.

I hung up and stared at the wall. My heart was doing something strange, a kind of arrhythmia I'd never felt before. This wasn't jealousy. This was fear. Real fear. The kind that makes your hands shake and your thoughts spiral.

Pinky was innocent. That was the thing. She didn't see danger in people. She didn't understand that some men, most men, saw kindness as invitation. She'd tell me stories about guys at work who flirted with her, and she'd laugh it off like it was nothing. "They're just being friendly," she'd say. And I'd smile and nod and secretly want to punch every one of them.

But this was different. This was a hotel room. This was alcohol. This was a man named Marcus with a smile that knew things.

I grabbed my keys. Then I put them down. What was I going to do, storm into a hotel and demand to see my wife? Make a scene? Embarrass her in front of her coworkers? That would be the end of her job, maybe the end of us.

I sat back down.

I waited.

At 12:30 AM, my phone buzzed. A text from Pinky: *Staying over. Too drunk to drive. See you tomorrow. Love you.*

Staying over.

I typed: *Staying where?*

She didn't answer.

I typed: *Pinky, I need you to call me right now.*

Nothing.

I typed: *Who is Marcus?*

The message showed as delivered. Then read. Then nothing.

I sat in the dark and listened to the silence. Somewhere across the city, my wife was in a hotel room with a stranger. And there was nothing I could do about it.

The clock ticked. The night stretched. And I realized, with a clarity that felt like a knife, that I didn't know my wife at all. Not the way I thought I did. Not the way I needed to.

The woman I married would never stay out all night without calling. The woman I married would never let a strange man put his arm around her. The woman I married would never send me a photo like that, casual and carefree, as if nothing was wrong.

But maybe that woman didn't exist. Maybe she never had. Maybe I'd been in love with a story I told myself, and now the story was ending, and I was the only one still reading.

I picked up my phone one more time. Typed a single word: *Please.*

The message stayed unread.

And I sat there, in the quiet of our apartment, and waited for morning.