Tabula Rasa

It was one of the many formal living rooms in this stupidly big house. Each one perfect. So perfect that it was hard to take in, nothing for the senses to catch on. A perfectly smooth glassy visage of wealth and power and fuck you. He shut the door behind him and the sound of the party became muffled. He needed time alone, away from that room of boorish men. His wife is definitely fucking at least one of them. He has been through enough affairs to recognize the glint in another man's eye when he is fucking your wife and thinks you don't know. At this point he just didn't care, a fury of tired apathy raged within. He sat on one of the sofas and heard the door click open behind him. He turned and saw a pretty woman nervously poke her head into the room. He smiled at her and she apologized, turning to go but he gestured her in. They ended up speaking about politics and music and boring parties. That night going home in a cab he wondered if his wife could see the glint in his eye. She didn't care.