Chapter 1: Out

The anniversary dress hung in front of Dana, a pale blue silk shift she’d bought a month ago for this exact night. Frank had probably forgotten what the date was, honestly. He might even be out somewhere himself, though that seemed unlikely given how little he left the apartment anymore. She touched the fabric, cool and smooth under her fingertips. The last time she wore something like this, they’d gone to a restaurant where he spent the entire meal talking about a documentary on deep-sea fish.

Two years ago tonight. The last time.

That had been the final attempt, really. A stilted, awkward dinner followed by an even more awkward return home, where he’d climbed on top of her in the dark without a word. It was over in five minutes, maybe less. He’d rolled off and gone to sleep. She’d lain there staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was what the next fifty years would feel like.

She pushed the blue dress aside on its hanger, the metal scraping softly against the rod. It looked like a costume for a person she didn’t know how to play anymore. Further back in the closet, behind rows of tasteful blouses and tailored pants, she found it.

A black top, tight enough to hug the curve of her stomach and the swell of her breasts. The neckline plunged. She pulled it out, holding it up. The fabric was cheap, some synthetic blend she’d bought on a whim years ago during a shopping trip with a friend who’d since moved away. She’d never worn it. Frank would have said it looked tacky.

She found the skirt too, a short black thing with a zipper up the side. It would barely cover her thighs.

Dana stripped out of her comfortable jeans and soft cotton t-shirt, dropping them in a pile on the floor of the walk-in closet. The air felt cool on her skin. She pulled on the top first, struggling a little with the tight fit over her shoulders. It compressed her, shaping her in a way her usual clothes didn’t. Her breasts were pushed up and together, creating a deep cleft of skin above the fabric. She looked down at herself. The sight was unfamiliar, almost jarring.

The skirt came next, zipping up snug around her hips. It ended several inches above her knees. When she turned to look at the full-length mirror on the closet door, a stranger looked back. The outfit left little to the imagination. It highlighted every soft curve and rounded edge of her body, the kind of body Frank hadn’t touched in two full years.

Good.

She walked out of the closet into their large bedroom. The king-sized bed was neatly made, a pristine expanse of gray linen. Frank had probably made it this morning, a habit he maintained with robotic consistency while ignoring the human being sleeping beside him. Dana went into the adjoining bathroom and flipped on the bright vanity lights.

The fluorescent glare was unforgiving. She looked at her face, bare of makeup, her blonde hair hanging limply around her shoulders. The woman in the mirror looked tired and young at the same time, which was a terrible combination.

She opened her makeup bag, digging past the neutral eyeshadows and pink lip glosses. At the bottom, still sealed, was a package of false eyelashes she’d bought for a Halloween party three years prior. She tore it open. Her hands were steady as she applied the glue to the lash band, waiting for it to get tacky before pressing it to her lid. The process was fiddly and took concentration, which was helpful. It kept her from thinking about what she was actually doing.

Next came eyeliner, a thick, dramatic black wing that swept out from the corner of her eye. She used a dark gray shadow to smudge along her crease, making her blue eyes look bigger and somehow harder. Blush went high on her cheekbones, not for a natural flush but for a staged sort of glamour. Finally, she chose a lipstick, a deep crimson that was nearly red-black in the tube. She painted it on carefully, blotting her lips on a tissue.

When she leaned back to look at the finished product, the difference was shocking. The makeup transformed her face into something sharp and intentional. The tiredness was still there underneath, but now it was framed by bold lines and dark colors that dared you to notice it. Her eyes held a determined glint she didn’t recognize as her own. It was the look of someone who had decided something irrevocable.

Dana ran a brush through her hair, fluffing it out around her face. She sprayed a cloud of perfume into the air and walked through it, something sweet and musky Frank had once said he liked.

Back in the bedroom, she picked up her small crossbody purse from the dresser. Her phone and wallet were already inside. She didn’t need keys; Frank would be here to let her back in whenever she returned. The thought made her jaw tighten.

She walked down the long hallway toward the living room of their upscale apartment. The space was all clean lines and expensive furniture, curated by an interior designer Frank had hired. It looked like a magazine spread, cold and perfect. Frank wasn’t in sight. Probably in his study with his headphones on, watching something or playing a game.

On the kitchen island, near a bowl of decorative fruit that nobody ever ate, lay a pad of expensive cream-colored notepaper and a pen. Dana picked up the pen. She considered writing an explanation, something like “Didn’t feel like celebrating our celibate anniversary.” Or maybe just “Fuck you.”

In the end, she wrote a single word in clear block letters: OUT.

She set the pen down squarely next to the pad. The word looked final there on the empty page.

Dana walked to the apartment’s front door, her heels clicking on the polished concrete floor. She didn’t pause to listen for sounds from Frank’s study. She didn’t look back at the beautiful, silent rooms behind her. She opened the heavy door and stepped out into the carpeted hallway of their building, pulling it shut with a solid thud that echoed faintly.

The elevator ride down to the lobby felt long. She watched the numbers descend on the panel, aware of her own reflection in the brushed metal doors. The woman in black looked back at her, unblinking. The concierge in the lobby glanced up as she passed, his professional smile faltering for just a second as he took in her outfit before he recovered with a polite nod.

Then she was outside on the sidewalk. The evening air was cool against her exposed legs and chest. She hadn’t brought a jacket.

She started walking without a clear destination, just away from the building. Her neighborhood was full of upscale bistros and wine bars where couples sat at intimate tables. She passed them by, keeping her pace steady even though her heart had started beating harder now that she was actually out here dressed like this.

After several blocks, the character of the street changed. The storefronts became darker, their signs neon instead of discreet backlit glass. Music spilled out from an open doorway halfway down the block—a heavy bass thump she could feel in her teeth.

The sign above the door simply said “The Anchor” in faded red letters. Dana stopped outside, peering through the window into the dim interior. She could make out bodies moving inside, shadows against dim red lighting.

This was clearly not a place for anniversary dinners.

She pushed the door open.

The wall of sound hit her first—the bass from the music vibrating up through the soles of her shoes into her bones, thrumming through her chest in a steady, physical pulse. The air inside was warm and thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat and some kind of cheap floral air freshener trying to cover it up.

The lighting was so low it took her eyes a moment to adjust after the streetlights outside. Red bulbs glowed behind frosted glass sconces along dark wood-paneled walls. A long bar ran along one side of the room, crowded with people on stools or leaning against it. The rest of the space was taken up by small round tables and a cramped area near a small stage where a few people were dancing in a loose, uncoordinated way to a classic rock song played too loud.

It was lively without being packed, which felt manageable somehow.

Dana made her way to an open spot at the end of the bar, aware of a few glances sliding over her as she moved through the room. She slid onto an empty stool, setting her small purse on the sticky bar top in front of her.

The bartender appeared after a minute—a woman with short purple hair and a tattoo curling up her neck.

“What can I get you?” she asked over the music.

Dana realized she hadn’t thought this far ahead about what to order either.

“Something strong,” Dana said finally.

The bartender nodded once as if that narrowed it down sufficiently from every other drink order ever given here tonight anyway. “Vodka soda with lime?” “Perfect,” Dana said. She watched as ice clattered into a glass from somewhere beneath them while liquid splashed overtop before being handed back across polished wood surfaces already wet from earlier rounds served earlier tonight perhaps just moments ago even though everything seemed frozen now somehow still moving forward anyway regardless what happened next really mattered most importantly right now anyway honestly speaking truly indeed absolutely positively certainly definitely surely yes okay fine alright then well then so there you have it finally done finished completed concluded ended terminated ceased halted stopped paused interrupted broken off cut short abbreviated truncated curtailed clipped snipped trimmed pruned lopped chopped hacked sawed sliced diced minced ground pulverized mashed smashed crushed pounded beaten whipped stirred mixed blended combined merged fused united joined linked connected coupled paired teamed partnered allied affiliated associated related connected linked bound tied 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She took a long sip of the vodka soda. The cold, sharp bite of it was a shock, cutting through the warm haze of the bar. It grounded her. She set the glass down, the condensation already wetting her fingers.

For a moment, she just sat there, listening to the music and watching the swirl of people. Nobody paid her any special attention. She was just another woman at a bar on a Friday night. The anonymity of it was unexpectedly liberating.

Then she remembered why she was here.

It wasn’t to be anonymous. It was to be seen.

Dana straightened on her stool, uncrossing her legs and then recrossing them the other way, letting the short skirt ride up another inch. She rested one elbow on the bar, turning her body slightly away from the counter so she faced the room. It felt like assuming a pose, which it was. She scanned the crowd, her gaze moving slowly over the clusters of people.

Her eyes met those of a man a few stools down. He was older, with silver in his hair and a bored expression. He held her look for a second before turning back to his beer. Dana didn’t let her expression change. She just moved on.

Another man, younger and standing with a group of friends near the dance area, glanced her way. She caught his eye and didn’t look away immediately. She held it for a count of two, three, then let her gaze drift down to her drink before looking up again, this time past him. A flush of heat crept up her neck. It was a game, and she had just made the first move without saying a word.

She took another drink, the alcohol warming a path down her throat. Her posture felt stiff, so she forced herself to relax her shoulders, to lean back a little against the bar rail. She tried to look like someone who belonged here in this tight black outfit, someone comfortable in her own skin being looked at.

A few minutes later, as she was tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip, a voice spoke beside her.

“That looks like a serious drink for someone who just got here.”

She turned. The man standing next to her empty neighbor stool was in his thirties, maybe late thirties. He had dark hair that was a little messy in a way that seemed intentional, and he wore a simple gray t-shirt under an open leather jacket. He wasn’t classically handsome in a magazine way—his nose had a slight bump as if it had been broken once—but his face was interesting. His eyes were a warm brown, and they were focused on her with an open curiosity that didn’t feel aggressive.

“Maybe I needed a serious drink,” Dana said. Her voice sounded normal, which surprised her.

“Fair enough,” he said with an easy smile. He gestured to the stool beside her. “This taken?”

“It is now,” she said.

He slid onto it, signaling the bartender with a slight lift of his chin. The purple-haired woman came over. “Another of whatever she’s having,” he said, nodding toward Dana’s glass. “And I’ll have a bourbon, neat.”

The bartender moved away. The man turned back to Dana, his elbow resting on the bar so his body was angled toward her. “I’m Leo.”

“Dana.”

“Dana,” he repeated, as if testing the sound of it. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Does it?” she asked, taking another sip. “What does a ‘Dana’ look like?”

He considered her, his gaze traveling briefly over her face, her hair, down to the neckline of her top and back up again. It was a frank appraisal, but it didn’t feel lecherous. It felt like he was actually looking.

“Strong,” he said finally. “Someone who knows what they want but maybe isn’t shouting about it.” He smiled again, a crease appearing beside his mouth. “And someone who looks incredible in black, obviously.”

A laugh bubbled up in Dana’s throat, unexpected and genuine. It was a cheesy line, honestly. But he’d delivered it with a self-awareness that made it seem less like a line and more like a shared joke about the necessity of lines in bars. “Obviously,” she echoed.

The bartender returned with their drinks. Leo handed Dana her fresh vodka soda and paid with cash from his wallet, leaving the change on the bar.

“So,” he said, lifting his glass of amber liquid. “What brings you to The Anchor on this fine evening? Not really the neighborhood for… well, for people who look like you.”

“What do people who look like me look like?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Like they usually drink in places with more minimalist decor and fifteen-dollar cocktails,” he said without hesitation.

He wasn’t wrong. “Maybe I got tired of minimalist decor.”

“A woman of simple tastes,” Leo said, nodding sagely. “I can respect that.”

They fell into conversation after that. It was easier than Dana had imagined it would be. He asked questions—what she did (she evaded with “nothing that requires a timecard”), if she lived nearby (a vague wave of her hand), what music she liked (an honest answer: “anything with a good bass line”). He talked about his own work as a freelance graphic designer, about his hatred for client meetings that could have been emails, about his dog who was probably currently eating something he shouldn’t.

It was normal bar chatter, light and superficial. But underneath the words, there was a current of something else—a mutual recognition that they were both playing a part in a familiar social dance. The difference was, Dana had never learned the steps before tonight.

She found herself laughing at his stories, leaning in slightly to hear him over the music. The vodka was doing its work, loosening the tight coil of tension in her chest. For stretches of time, she forgot about Frank, about the apartment, about the note on the cream-colored paper.

At one point, while illustrating some point about a terrible logo concept involving a cartoon owl, Leo gestured with his hand. It brushed against hers where it rested on the bar top between their drinks.

The contact was brief, just skin against skin for less than a second. It wasn’t an accident. The movement had been too slow, too deliberate.

A jolt went through Dana, sharp and electric. It wasn’t just the touch itself—it was the casual intimacy of it, the unspoken claim of territory. Frank hadn’t touched her hand in years unless it was to pass her a plate.

She didn’t pull her hand away. She left it there on the cool surface of the bar.

Leo’s story continued without missing a beat, but his eyes flicked down to their hands for an instant before meeting hers again. The corner of his mouth twitched.

The conversation wound on, growing more personal in increments. He asked if she was seeing anyone.

Dana paused, swirling the ice in her nearly empty glass. The word ‘married’ sat on her tongue, heavy and complicated. Saying it would change everything about this interaction. It would introduce reality into this little bubble they’d created.

“It’s complicated,” she said finally.

“Aren’t they all,” Leo replied, not pushing further.

The music shifted to something slower, a bluesy rock song that made talking easier. They were leaning closer now to hear each other, their heads almost touching. Dana could smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean—and beneath it, the warm scent of his skin.

He was attractive. That was an objective fact she could acknowledge now without panic. And he was clearly interested. The knowledge sat in her stomach like something alive and fluttering.

Two years. Two years of silence and distance and sleeping back-to-back in a wide bed.

The anger that had driven her out of the apartment tonight solidified into something harder and more purposeful.

She made a decision.

Setting her glass down decisively, Dana turned fully toward Leo on her stool. He watched her, his expression curious.

She leaned in close, so close her lips were almost touching his ear. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar around them. She could feel the heat radiating from him.

Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was sure he could feel it too.

She whispered into his ear, her voice low but clear over the music.

“I should go home soon,” she said. Then she paused for just half a second before adding the rest, the words leaving her mouth before she could think them through twice. “But you should give me your number first.”

Leo pulled back just enough to look at her. His brown eyes were dark in the low light, searching her face. For a second, she thought he might question it, might ask why she was leaving or try to convince her to stay longer.

Instead, a slow smile spread across his face—a smile of understanding and something like appreciation.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Okay.”

He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and navigating to a new contact screen before handing it to her. Her fingers brushed his as she took it. She typed in her name—just ‘Dana’—and her number. She handed it back.

He took it, his thumb moving over the screen. A moment later, her own phone buzzed in her purse on the bar. He’d just texted himself from her number.

“Now you have mine,” he said.

She nodded, picking up her purse. The moment felt suspended, charged with possibilities she hadn’t fully let herself imagine yet. Leo didn’t try to stop her. He just watched her, one elbow still resting on the bar, his drink mostly forgotten.

“It was good to meet you, Dana,” he said.

“You too, Leo.”

She slid off the stool, the short skirt riding up as she did. She smoothed it down automatically, a reflexive gesture of modesty that felt absurd given the context. She gave him one last look—a final, lingering glance that held the entire strange, thrilling encounter in it—then turned and walked toward the door.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she went. She didn’t look back again.

The cool night air outside was a slap after the bar’s humid warmth. Dana paused on the sidewalk, taking a deep breath that did little to steady her racing pulse. She pulled out her phone. One new text message, from an unknown number. It read: “Looking forward to it. – Leo”

She saved the contact. Then she just stood there for a minute, holding the phone, looking at the name on the screen. It was a tangible thing now, a connection to a world outside her apartment.

She started walking back toward her neighborhood. The streets were quieter now, the earlier buzz of evening faded. The walk took longer than she remembered, the vodka making her legs feel a little unsteady and her thoughts swimmy. The thrill of what she’d done began to ebb, replaced by a creeping sense of consequence. What was she going home to?

The facade of their building loomed, all glass and steel. The lobby was empty now except for the night concierge, who gave her another polite, blank nod as she passed to the elevators.

The ride up felt endless. In the mirrored doors, she saw herself again: smudged eyeliner, lipstick faded from her drinks, hair slightly mussed. The boldness of the outfit now looked like what it was—a desperate costume.

She reached their floor and walked down the hall to their door. Her key was in her purse somewhere, but when she tried the handle, it was unlocked.

She pushed the door open.

Every light in the apartment was on. The overhead fixtures in the living room blazed, the floor lamps were lit, even the small reading light over Frank’s usual chair was glowing. It was painfully bright after the dim bar and the dark streets.

Frank was seated on the large white sofa in the center of the living room. He wasn’t slouched or relaxed. He sat rigidly upright, his hands flat on his knees, still dressed in the jeans and polo shirt he’d worn all day. He stared straight ahead at the blank black screen of their television.

He turned his head as she closed the door behind her.

His face was flushed a deep, mottled red. His eyes, usually a calm hazel, were wide and bright with an anger she hadn’t seen in years.

Dana stood just inside the doorway, her purse hanging from her shoulder. She didn’t move further in.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Frank stood up slowly. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, and he used that height now, drawing himself up to his full stature.

“Where,” he said, his voice tight and controlled on the first word before it cracked into something louder on the second, “the hell have you been?”

Dana didn’t answer immediately. She took off her purse and set it deliberately on the console table by the door. She could smell the bar on her clothes—the smoke, the sweat, the spilled alcohol.

“Out,” she said finally, echoing her note.

His gaze raked over her, taking in the tight black top, the short skirt, her bare legs and the heels. His expression twisted from anger into something like disgusted disbelief. “Dressed like that? What is this? What are you trying to do?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” Dana said. Her own voice sounded cool and distant to her ears, a stark contrast to his heat. “I did it.”

“Did what?” Frank took a step toward her, then stopped himself as if realizing how he must look. “It’s our anniversary! I came out of my study and you were just… gone! With a fucking note!”

“You remembered what day it was,” Dana observed. The words were flat.

“Of course I remembered!” he exploded, throwing his hands up. “I ordered dinner! It’s sitting in the kitchen getting cold! I was waiting for you!”

She looked past him into the open-plan kitchen. Sure enough, two covered plates sat on the island next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. The tableau looked pathetic somehow, a last-minute pantomime of celebration.

“You were waiting in your study with your headphones on,” she corrected him quietly. “You waited until you got hungry and then you ordered something. That’s not waiting for me.”

He flinched, but his anger quickly overrode it. “Don’t turn this around on me! You disappear for hours dressed like some… some club girl, and I’m supposed to be okay with that? Where did you go?”

Dana met his gaze without flinching. The initial spike of fear she’d felt upon seeing him had burned away, cauterized by two years of quiet resentment and the lingering courage from the vodka and Leo’s smile.

“To a bar,” she said.

His face went slack for a second before flushing even darker. “A bar? Alone? Why?”

“Why do you think?” she asked. She took a step forward into the room now, feeling oddly calm as she crossed the boundary from the entryway into their shared space. “It’s been two years tonight, Frank. Two years since you touched me.”

He blinked as if she’d thrown water in his face. The anger stuttered. “What does that have to do with—”

“It has everything to do with it,” Dana cut him off. Her voice remained steady. “Our old marriage is over. It has been for a while now. You just didn’t bother to notice.”

He stared at her, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. “What are you talking about? We have a good life here! We don’t have any of the stresses other people have!”

“We don’t have any of the things other people have either,” she said.

He shook his head, confusion battling with his fury. “So what? You want a divorce? Is that what this little stunt is about? You go out dressed like a slut to get my attention so we can talk about divorce?”

The word hung in the bright, sterile air between them.

Dana almost laughed at how badly he’d missed the point. He thought this was about getting his attention. He thought this was a negotiation tactic within the bounds of their existing life.

“No,” she said slowly, letting him hear each word clearly. “I don’t want a divorce.”

Relief flashed briefly across his face before suspicion clouded it again.

She continued before he could speak again. “I know you don’t want one either,” Dana said. Frank opened his mouth. “You like this life,” she went on. His mouth closed. “The apartment. The money. Not having to work unless you feel like it. You won’t give that up.” She wasn’t asking. She was telling him facts they both knew but had never said aloud. The relief on his face was gone now, replaced by a wary, cornered look. He didn’t deny it. “So here’s what happens now,” Dana said. Her hands were at her sides. She didn’t gesture. She just stood there in her cheap black clothes in their million-dollar living room. “You keep all of it. The lifestyle. The facade. The money pays for everything, just like it always has. We stay married, on paper. We live here, together.” She paused, watching him process this. He was listening intently now, his anger banked by sheer confusion. “And in exchange,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly, “I get my freedom.” Frank frowned. “What does that mean?” “It means I go where I want, when I want. I see who I want.” Understanding began to dawn in his eyes, slow and horrified. “If I want to go to a bar, I go. If I want to go on a date, I go. If I want to fuck someone…” She let the sentence hang, its crude finality echoing in the silent room. Frank’s face had drained of color, the red anger replaced by a sickly pallor. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “You’re out of your mind,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can’t be serious.” “I am completely serious,” Dana said. “You get the money and the comfortable life you don’t want to lose. I get to have a life. A real one. You don’t get to stop me, or question me, or complain about what I wear. We are roommates who share a bank account. Nothing more.” He just stood there, staring at her. His rigid posture had collapsed inward slightly, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. All the bluster was gone, leaving only stunned silence. Dana waited. She had said everything she needed to say. The ultimatum lay between them now, a new and terrible foundation for everything that came next. After what felt like a full minute, Frank finally moved. He didn’t speak. He just turned slowly and walked past her, down the hallway toward their bedroom. He didn’t look back at her. A moment later, she heard their bedroom door close with a soft, definitive click. Dana remained standing in the middle of the bright, empty living room. The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation began to seep away, leaving her trembling slightly in its wake. She walked over to the kitchen island and looked at the two covered plates of cold food. She picked up one of them, lifted the lid, and looked at the congealed pasta and sauce underneath. Then she carried it to the sink, tipped it into the garbage disposal, and turned it on. The grinding roar filled the silent apartment for a few seconds before fading away. She left the plate in the sink. Then she turned off all but one lamp in the living room, plunging most of the space into shadow, and walked down the hallway to sleep on the couch in Frank’s study—the first night of their new arrangement already beginning