'Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.'-Ephesians 5:22-23
It had been six days, nine hours, forty-eight minutes and sixteen, seventeen, eighteen seconds since Dahlia's encounter with the demon, Ashemdai.
Not that she was counting.
She was too busy attempting to purge his presence from her house, mind and soul by being the best Christian housewife she could ever be. Since the encounter, she had been attending the community church more often. She sought the predictable solace of the Word and her knees ached from the hours she spent at the altar, begging for the forgiveness of her mortal sins. She became more vocal during the choir practice and even volunteered to become a more active member despite her yearning to remain the community wallflower.
She could tell that her Husband appreciated her efforts. He had started to acknowledge her in public, taking their interactions further by holding her hand briefly and even employing a wispy caress to the side of her face when he issued his instructions for the coming week.
Some could say that the infernal visit was a blessing in disguise geared at bringing the two closer to each other and cementing their relationship in the eyes of their God and community.
Despite this, Dahlia felt the performative symbolism of her actions. The shined shoes that she could see the reflection of her corrupted soul in, the suddenly bland tasting body and blood of Jesus Christ and the monotonous topping from her Husband felt as empty as the hallowed deep left behind by Ashemdai, which she refused to acknowledge.
The small dosage of deviation the demon had administered to her turned out to be an accursed affliction since it gave her a glimpse behind the woolly curtain of her banal existence.
Once she realized this however, her efforts became more frenzied to rectify the matter. Motivated by the opioid of her Husband's newfound affection and the community's superficial acceptance of her, Dahlia donned the identity expected of her and wiped out her own individuality for the community's hive mentality.
Her plan to disremember the particular demon was working spectacularly.
The road to eternal life and happiness in her earthly one was paved smooth with acts of service to her Husband and their God.
Seven hours before the promised visit, the smooth road gave way to a potholed dirt track caused by none other than despicable Ruye.
They had been eating a dinner of baked potatoes and ham, as was customary on a Sunday afternoon and it served as a fitting epilogue to their church service. As her Husband took a healthy, yet delicate swig of his Cabernet Sauvignon, the "serious wine, for serious wine drinkers", he announced that he would visit with the widow.
It had been five days since he visited her last and it was his longest streak without seeing her. In his defence, Dahlia had been a klutz of epic proportions and had warranted punishment on many occasions.
She knew this visit, like it always had, would lead to them shaking the sheets, a phrase taught to her a particularly naughty cousin which she still found confusing since there wasn't much shaking actually involved in the act.
At least when done with her Husband.
She was still chalking up what she saw during that dream as the work of an overly imaginative artistic brain steeped in fallacy.
Dahlia was speechless for a moment. She had done everything that was expected of her and still she was receiving punishment.
She voiced her concerns.
"Am I being punished?" she asked timidly, keeping in with the submission tenet of the Cult of True Womanhood that was taught to her a child.
"Surprisingly, no. But Ruye is bound to feel a little lonely without my presence so I am sacrificing my time- our time to help the less fortunate."
"What about the unmatched men in the community? Are they not enough, Husband?" Dahlia retorted with a frosty bite.
Her Husband's eyes swung to hers in quick admonition.
Slowly and enunciating every syllable the husband replied, "Are you questioning me, Dahlia? Shall I remind you of Ephesians 5:22-23?"
"'Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.' I understand and I respect your wishes."
"Good. I assume by now you know the ritual. Do not wait up and be in bed by nine. I trust you remember the punishment for breaking these rules?"
"Yes."
As she shut the door behind her Husband, Dahlia was shaking with anger at Ruye's trollop like behaviour. Her seduction of the men in the community would not continue to hold her Husband in its lustful grasp anymore. This would be the last time he visited her for sexual intercourse.
Dahlia had always though of herself as a homogenous entity. All her parts, every atom, her brain, heart and soul, worked in tandem to create the perfect execution of her Husband's will.
But if that were the case, why was she, at 9:05, wearing a worrisome tread into the living room carpet instead of being in bed as was instructed?
It was as if her parts were not in cohesion and she had the cartoonish little devil and little angel pulling her in opposite directions.
Should she sneak out to watch Ruye in the act and learn her trade secrets? Or should she stay in bed like the submissive wife Ephesians dictated her to be?
It was at 9:30 that she made her decision. Even then, she had this nagging feeling in the pits of her stomach that the literal and metaphorical path she was about to take would drastically alter her reality, in some shape or form she was unprepared for.
Like a thief in the night, she skulked between the shadows the moon cast on the wide expanse of the community. Dahlia ducked under windows and shimmied between back gates, as best as she could in her muslin dress.
Miraculously, she arrived at Ruye's house, clear across from hers, without being caught by the husbands and unattached men in the community.
Her house was as unassuming as she was. The peeling white picket fence and dried up vegetable garden an old testimony to the long-gone male presence that occupied the home. It was not as grand as her Husband's home with its one storey, textbook style.
Dahlia was too nervous to take stock of the house's particulars anyway. She clutched at her stomach as the gnawing grew stronger when she neared what she hoped was Ruye's bedroom window.
It seemed God was on her side tonight.
The windows were slightly ajar and allowed the moon the illuminate the room with a soft silver glow. She could see the two figures within.
Years of experience told her that the male shape was her Husband's which meant the other was the traitorous Ruye.
She was too far away to hear their whispers, but her chest imploded with righteous anger when Ruye swooped in to steal a kiss from her Husband.
He was the type to lead. He controlled their actions in the bedroom. He dominated their life outside of it. Surely, he was about to burn in cold anger like he did with her when she overstepped her boundaries. She waited with bated breath for the other shoe to drop, yet it did not.
He seemed to pour himself into Ruye's mouth with a reckless abandon she had never seen him exude before.
They became a tangle of limbs and mouths punctuated by soft sighs that were deafening to Dahlia's ears outside the window.
Dahlia saw the exact moment her Husband entered Ruye. The woman's mouth formed a perfect circle and her eyes rolled over in delirious pleasure. The Husband kept thrusting, each gaining more as he went along.
She could hear them now as their mutual pleasure urged their voices louder.
"Oh God. Oh God. Oh God." Ruye kept repeating as the wet slaps echoed in the quiet night.
"Not God. Better." The Husband retorted in a gruff voice that seemed as foreign as the act she was watching.
The tears had been flowing freely from her eyes when she connected with Ruye's own.
At some point during this animated caricature of sex, she been turned on her knees to face the window. Hunched behind her like some wild thing, with his faced buried in the curve of her back was the Husband vocally pummeling away into oblivion.
Dahlia held Ruye's gaze, unblinking and unrepentant that she was the interloper in their intimate act and Ruye held hers shameless in the pleasure she was receiving from a man that was not her own.
The gauntlet had been dropped and both women dived to pick it up as the Husband obliviously spent his seed onto Ruye's back.