It was half past ten at night, but Augustine hadn’t returned ho yet. Anne could hold her patience barely. Until now, she hadn’t called him as she didn’t want to disturb him at work. But as the night grew, her restlessness intensified.
He couldn’t be at the office. As the thought surfaced in her mind, she grew worried.
"Did sothing happen to him?" she mused.
Unable to hold back anymore, she dialed his number. The ring went on, but no one picked up the phone.
Anne’s worry turned into fear. "Where is he? Why is he not answering my call?"
She was about to dial his number yet again when the doorbell chid loudly. She jumped, startled, the phone almost slipping out of her grasp.
With her heart pounding, Anne rushed to open the door. The scene outside stunned her. Augustine stood there leaning on Gustave. The strong sll of alcohol assaulted her nostrils.
His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt wrinkled and untucked. His eyes were bloodshot, barely open, and his lips moved as if trying to speak, but only a garbled mumble ca out.
"What’s going on?" The question escaped her mouth almost imdiately. Perplexed, she looked at Augustine from head to toe.
He didn’t look like the composed man she knew.
"Why did he drink so much?" she asked.
"Uh...let take him to the bedroom first," Gustave said, avoiding her questions.
"Yes." She helped him lead Augustine to the bedroom.
After carefully putting him on the bed, Gustave stepped back. "It’s late now. I’ll leave." He hurried away as if he feared Anne would continue asking questions.
"Hey, wait..." Anne wanted to stop him, but Gustave had already left. She shrugged, her gaze dropping to Augustine, who was murmuring sothing incoherently.
"What happened to you tonight?" she wondered as she squatted by the bed and removed his shoes.
She had never seen him get drunk so much. It made her worried. As she looked at him, she noticed him restlessly tugging at his tie.
"It’s irritating," he groaned.
"Let help you remove your clothes." Anne clambered onto the bed and sat beside him. She gently untied his tie and pulled it out. She then started unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers brushing his skin.
"Don’t touch ," he muttered, his eyebrows creased, shoving his hand away.
"It’s ," Anne said. "I am helping you remove your clothes.
But Augustine barely listened to her. He continued muttering, "Don’t touch . I am married."
Anne’s stomach sank. "What?" she asked, stunned.
"I can’t—my wife...she wouldn’t like this. Don’t..." His hand swatted vaguely in the air, warding her off like a stranger.
Anne was amused and at the sa ti frustrated. "You idiot. You got so drunk you can’t even recognize your own wife? Now stop moving and let do my job."
Ignoring his protest, she continued to unbutton his shirt.
"So annoying," he grunted and pushed her hand away yet again.
"God," Anne muttered, tugging at his shirt. "Let get this off before you suffocate in it."
"No," he said again, his voice more urgent this ti. "Don’t..."
Anne’s hand froze on the button. She looked up at him, completely exasperated. "Enough, Augustine," she snapped back. "I am your wife, Anne. Take a good look at ."
He blinked.
Once. Twice.
His expression shifted as if the words finally broke through the fog. His eyes locked on her face, really looking this ti.
"Anne...?" he said hoarsely, confused and ashad all at once. "Is that you?"
"Yes, ," she said tightly, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. "Your very real wife."
Augustine pressed his fingers to his brow, guilt flickering through his blurry eyes. He was too far gone to say much, but his body finally stilled beneath her touch.
Anne sighed, still irritated but now gentler. "You scared ."
With care, she resud unbuttoning his shirt, this ti without resistance. He let her remove his clothes.
"I hate seeing you like this," she whispered, almost tired. "Co on. Wash your face."
Anne guided Augustine to his feet, slinging one of his heavy arms over her shoulder. He stumbled, almost collapsing into her, his body weight pressing against her smaller fra.
"God, you are heavy," she muttered, gritting her teeth as she steered him toward the bathroom. "You are lucky I still love you after this ss."
He mumbled sothing unintelligible in reply, his cheek brushing against her temple as they moved slowly. His steps were uneven, legs dragging, head lolling slightly. Anne struggled but kept him upright with surprising strength.
Once inside the bathroom, she flipped on the light. The stark brightness made Augustine squint and groan.
"Sit," she ordered gently but firmly, guiding him onto the closed toilet lid. He slumped down, resting his elbows on his knees.
Anne turned on the tap, letting warm water run before filling a basin. She rolled up her sleeves, grabbing a clean towel from the cabinet. Carefully, she dipped the towel into the warm water and knelt in front of him.
She started with his face, wiping away the faint traces of sweat and gri. He didn’t resist. His eyes were still half-closed, but there was sothing vulnerable in his expression now, sothing boyish, unguarded.
When she gently cleaned the back of his neck and then his hands, he winced slightly at the cool contrast of the towel, but didn’t pull away.
"You are always calm and composed," she whispered, rinsing the cloth again. "But this is surprising. Why did you drink so much?"
He murmured sothing again and swayed toward her. She steadied him, brushing the damp strands of hair back from his forehead. His face was warm, flushed from the alcohol.
"I’m here," she said softly, wiping at the hollow of his throat. "Even when you don’t recognize ."
When she finished, she pulled him up with care. "Co on. Let’s get you to bed."
He opened his eyes fully, glassy and confused, but softer. "Anne..."
"I know." She didn’t let him finish. "Let’s just get you so rest."
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