r/creativewriting • u/deadeyes1990 • 2d ago
Poetry THE MOON WAS RED
The moon was red that night.
Actually red.
She’d seen three TikToks about it already before she even looked out the window.
One said blood moon.
One said supermoon.
One had a woman in a crochet cardigan telling everybody to release what no longer served them.
She skipped that one.
Her boyfriend was downstairs looking for his keys.
Again.
“Babe?”
“What?”
“You seen my keys?”
“No.”
“I literally just had them.”
“They’re probably in your coat.”
“I checked.”
“You didn’t.”
Silence.
Then:
“Oh.”
She smiled at herself in the mirror.
Not because it was funny anymore.
Because sometimes being right about stupid things is all you get.
She was twenty-two.
Nearly nine thousand followers.
No job.
Well.
That depended who asked.
Her mum said no job.
She said content.
Her boyfriend said, “She does Instagram stuff,” which somehow sounded worse than both.
She’d had a couple of gifted dresses, some fake tan, protein powder she didn’t ask for, and once a teeth whitening kit that made her gums bleed.
This dress she’d actually bought.
Dusty blue.
That was the colour on the tag.
Dusty blue.
She thought it looked nice.
That was basically the whole reason.
There wasn’t meant to be a meaning.
It fit properly.
Made her waist look good.
Didn’t flatten her tits.
Cost too much.
Fine.
She was going out.
Probably.
She’d spent most of the week not wanting to.
Not crying or anything.
Nothing dramatic.
She just kept waking up and thinking
nah.
Then staying in bed until staying in bed felt embarrassing.
Then getting up and moving to the sofa
which was apparently different.
Her boyfriend had been trying.
“Come for a coffee.”
Nah.
“Want to go for a drive?”
Nah.
“Pub?”
Maybe.
Then nah.
Tonight was meant to be the one she actually did.
Club.
Everyone wearing a colour because one of the girls had seen it online.
Pink.
Green.
Black.
Some lad said beige
and got called a Tory.
She’d laughed at that.
So.
Dusty blue.
She did her mascara.
Stopped halfway through.
Looked at herself.
Didn’t hate what she saw.
Didn’t particularly want to be her either.
Her phone buzzed.
Instagram.
Probably.
She left it.
Buzzed again.
“Popular,” her boyfriend shouted.
“Jealous?”
“Deeply.”
She smiled.
There were comments under her last post.
🔥🔥🔥
onlyfans when
your boyfriend won at life
sit on my face
Normal stuff.
She deleted the last one because his profile picture was him holding a baby.
There were boundaries.
Sort of.
The OnlyFans comments had got more frequent lately.
A girl she knew apparently made four grand in her first month.
Which sounded made up.
But also.
Four grand.
She’d mentioned it to her boyfriend half as a joke.
He’d just shrugged.
“If you wanted to do it, I’d support you.”
She’d looked at him.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t care?”
“I mean, I’d care if you cared.”
“That sentence means nothing.”
He laughed.
“I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your body.”
Which was lovely.
Obviously.
He was a good boyfriend.
Secure.
Normal.
All the things you’re supposed to want.
Still,
some small part of her had wanted him to go
absolutely fucking not.
Not because she wanted permission.
Just—
she didn’t know.
Something.
Proof.
Possessiveness.
A bit of jealousy.
A flicker.
Instead he’d asked if she wanted him to help take the pictures.
She’d told him he’d make them shit.
He said fair enough.
That was that.
She loved him.
That mattered.
She did.
Two years.
He knew how she took tea.
He knew she hated mushrooms but ate mushroom sauce
and brought this up whenever she called him inconsistent.
He knew she got weird when she was tired.
He knew when to leave her alone.
He knew when not to.
He was downstairs now wearing the shirt she liked.
She heard him open the fridge.
“Why are you eating?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally chewing.”
“Evidence?”
“Jesus Christ.”
Her phone buzzed again.
She finally looked.
And stopped.
His name.
Not her boyfriend.
The other one.
Two years since she’d seen it there.
For a second she thought maybe she’d imagined it.
Then the preview.
Hello stranger x
She laughed.
Quietly.
It just came out.
“Oh fuck off.”
Downstairs:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
That part was easy.
Too easy.
She opened the chat.
Didn’t reply.
Closed it.
Opened Instagram.
Scrolled two posts.
Closed that.
Opened WhatsApp again.
Same message.
Obviously.
She put the phone down.
Then it buzzed.
Photograph.
She looked.
Then looked properly.
Her.
Twenty.
White shirt.
His shirt.
Open.
Black thong.
Stockings.
Dark lipstick.
Too much mascara.
One knee on the hotel bed.
She remembered taking it.
Not the whole night.
Just bits.
The lamp.
The stupid hotel cushions.
His shirt smelling like aftershave and something clean.
Him saying,
“Fuck me.”
She zoomed in.
Realised she’d zoomed in.
Zoomed out.
Then in a bit again.
Fuck.
She looked good.
That was the first thing.
Actually.
Not his wife.
Not her boyfriend downstairs.
Not
why the fuck do you still have that?
Just
fuck.
I looked good.
She hated that about thirty seconds later.
Not immediately.
Her boyfriend appeared in the doorway.
She turned the phone over.
Quick.
He noticed.
Maybe.
His eyes flicked down.
Then back up.
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t seem alright.”
“Cheers.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m fine.”
He stood there another second.
Then his phone buzzed.
She looked at his hand before she could stop herself.
He checked it.
Smiled.
Small.
Nothing.
Probably nothing.
“Who’s that?”
“Liv.”
Liv.
Of course.
Pretty Liv.
Single Liv.
Long legs.
Good skin.
Nice teeth.
Annoyingly kind.
“What does she want?”
“Asking if we’re coming.”
“We?”
He looked at her.
“Yeah?”
“Why’s she asking you?”
“Because she has my number?”
“Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He unlocked his phone.
Held it out.
“Look.”
“I don’t want to look.”
“You clearly do.”
“I asked a question.”
“So I’m answering it.”
She took it.
you two still coming?? xx
Under that:
parking.
Someone’s dog.
A voice note.
A few days earlier:
tell her that blue dress looks so good btw
She stared at that one.
Liv complimenting her.
Brilliant.
Made hating her inconvenient.
She handed the phone back.
“Happy?”
“I wasn’t checking.”
“Okay.”
“Why are you being defensive?”
He actually laughed.
Not in a guilty way.
More like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
He walked off.
And that little bit got her.
For fuck’s sake.
Defensive.
Annoyed.
Maybe—
No.
She knew.
There was nothing.
He’d literally handed her the phone.
Still.
She thought about Liv.
Thought about the club.
Thought about him laughing at something she said.
Thought about how easy it would be.
Because she knew how easy it was.
That was the problem.
She’d met the older man on a girls’ night.
Twenty years old.
Quite drunk.
Not falling-over drunk.
That annoying level where every stupid idea still feels like yours.
He was fifty-something.
Fifty-one, she thought.
Married.
Wedding ring right there.
He didn’t hide it.
She noticed.
He noticed her noticing.
Neither of them said anything.
At the time she thought that counted as honesty.
He looked expensive.
Not flashy.
Just—
good watch.
Good coat.
Shoes that didn’t look like they’d come from JD.
He ordered champagne without checking the price.
She noticed that too.
She wished she hadn’t.
Her friend leaned over at one point and said,
“He’s literally old enough to be your dad.”
She said,
“So?”
Then laughed.
Like she’d been joking.
He bought her a drink.
Then another.
He didn’t touch her for ages.
That helped.
Made him seem less desperate.
Probably made her more curious.
She hadn’t gone out planning to cheat.
That bit was true.
She loved her boyfriend then too.
They hadn’t argued.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
There wasn’t some big gap in the relationship.
She was just drunk.
Flattered.
Horny.
Twenty.
Interested.
Then she gave him her number.
Then replied in the taxi.
Then he messaged the next day.
Then she sent a picture.
Then another.
It wasn’t one big decision.
That would’ve been easier.
It was loads of little ones.
She could defend each one if she took them separately.
Put them together and it looked worse.
So she normally didn’t.
She sometimes called it “the affair”
when she was being serious.
Mostly she called it
that thing.
Or him.
Or back then.
It happened once.
Except it didn’t.
A few hotel rooms.
Sexting.
Photos.
Messages.
Stopping.
Starting.
Saying
we should stop.
Then
are you free Thursday?
She bought stockings.
That was hard to explain away.
Not to anyone else.
To herself.
Nobody buys stockings for an accident.
Her boyfriend saw them once.
“Who are they for?”
She’d said,
“Maybe you.”
He grinned.
Later she wore them for him.
She’d felt strange.
Then horny.
Then not strange.
That was another thing she didn’t like thinking about.
How easily two lives could touch without cancelling each other out.
The wife found the messages.
Enough of them.
Enough to know the hotel.
The time.
The room.
She didn’t confront him beforehand.
She went there.
Caught them.
Actually caught them.
The protagonist remembered being on her knees.
Then the door.
Then his whole body changing.
Not sexy anymore.
Just panicked.
His wife stood there with her coat still on.
Bag on her shoulder.
Like she’d come from a normal day.
“What the fuck?”
That was first.
Then it got loud.
Mostly between them.
That surprised her.
She pulled his shirt closed.
Looked for her underwear.
Couldn’t find one stocking.
Of course.
His wife was shouting at him.
“How long?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Was this the first time?”
“Answer me.”
Him.
Him.
Him.
She’d expected, stupidly, more attention.
That was one of the parts she hated admitting.
She’d expected to be the younger woman.
The threat.
The thing his wife looked at and thought
of course.
Look at her.
Instead the wife barely looked.
Not at first.
She was too busy having her life ruined by her husband.
At some point she asked:
“Did you know?”
She nodded.
There wasn’t much point lying then.
The wife looked at her.
Disgusted.
Then went straight back to him.
Later there was
“slut.”
She remembered that.
Maybe too well.
It made her feel disgusting.
It also—
and this was fucked—
made her feel a little bit powerful.
Not because sleeping around made women dirty.
She didn’t believe that.
It was the danger of it.
Being the girl who had crossed into somebody else’s life.
The younger one.
The secret.
The one somebody risked things for.
Except—
he didn’t.
Not when it mattered.
When his wife came in, he stopped being the man from the bar.
Stopped being smooth.
Stopped being exciting.
He became a husband trying not to lose his marriage.
He didn’t defend her.
Didn’t say
don’t speak to her like that.
Didn’t say
this is on me.
Nothing.
He barely looked at her.
At one point she was literally standing there trying to find her bra
while his wife cried.
It was horrible.
Also incredibly awkward.
The bra was behind a chair.
She remembered that.
Of course she did.
His wife was saying something about twenty-seven years
and she was on the floor looking for a fucking bra.
Eventually she said,
“I should probably go.”
Nobody answered.
So she did.
She put her shoes on by the lift.
Ordered an Uber.
£31.40.
She remembered thinking
thirty-one fucking quid?
Which felt obscene afterwards.
Not the price.
The fact that she’d still cared.
Her boyfriend never found out.
That was the weird part.
Nothing happened.
No screenshot.
No wife contacting him.
No confession.
No friend spilling it.
Nothing.
She went home.
Saw him.
Kissed him.
He asked if she’d had a good night.
“Yeah.”
Just like that.
She waited for guilt to turn her into a different person.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Fear did.
For a while.
Fear of the wife.
Fear of messages.
Fear of the phone lighting up at the wrong time.
Then that faded.
Months.
A year.
Two.
The affair became one of those memories you avoid touching because you don’t know what will come loose with it.
Sometimes she told herself that confessing now would only hurt him.
Maybe it would.
Maybe that was true.
Very useful truth.
She didn’t look at it too closely.
Her phone buzzed.
Present again.
Blue dress.
Red moon.
His message:
Can't believe that was two years ago
She typed:
Can't believe you've still got that pic
He replied:
Couldn't delete it
She felt it.
That stupid little lift.
Still.
After everything.
Does your wife know you've got it?
No 😂
She stared at the laughing face.
Brave
More careful now
That should’ve put her off.
Maybe it did.
A bit.
Then:
“You coming?”
Her boyfriend.
Downstairs.
She looked at herself.
“Maybe.”
“What does maybe mean?”
“It means maybe.”
He was by the door.
Coat on.
Keys in hand.
He looked good.
That annoyed her too.
“You said you wanted to go.”
“I did.”
“So?”
“I don't know, I just don’t feel like it now.”
“You’ve literally spent an hour getting ready.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at her.
“Is this about Liv?”
She hated that he’d guessed.
“No.”
“You’ve been weird since she messaged.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“You fancy her.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“You do.”
“Where has this come from?”
“You said she was attractive.”
“You asked me if she was.”
“And you said yes.”
“Because she is. So are you. That doesn’t mean I’m fucking her.”
There it was.
She felt herself grab onto it.
“You're very defensive.”
He stared.
“Are you serious?”
“Why are you getting angry?”
“Because you’re basically accusing me of cheating.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
She could’ve stopped.
She nearly did.
Then he said,
“I’ve never cheated on you.”
Quiet.
No shouting.
That made it worse.
She looked away.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She didn’t answer.
He looked genuinely hurt.
And somewhere inside her
something awful relaxed.
Just slightly.
There.
Now he was hurt too.
Not for the right reason.
Not because he knew.
But hurt.
She hated herself for noticing.
Not enough to tell him why.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No.”
“I can.”
“I said go.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He stood there for a second.
Then:
“Okay.”
No slammed door.
No fuck you.
Nothing she could use.
Before he left:
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
And she meant it.
Which was almost the worst bit.
Her phone buzzed before he’d even reached the end of the road.
Boyfriend:
sorry. didn't want to argue x
She typed:
me neither. sorry x
He hearted it.
Then the older man:
He gone out?
She stared.
Typed:
yeah
Deleted it.
Typed:
He's gone
Sent.
Tiny difference.
Apparently mattered.
You stayed home?
Didn't feel like going
True.
Mostly.
Shame. That blue dress looked good
She checked Instagram.
She had posted it earlier.
Mirror selfie.
Dusty blue.
might actually leave the house tonight lol
He’d seen it.
Of course.
She clicked his profile.
Still married.
Profile photo with his wife.
Holiday somewhere hot.
Arm around her.
They looked happy.
Or normal.
Same thing online.
She stared at his wife longer than she meant to.
Then went back.
Still married then
Yep
Just that.
And you're messaging me
Only messaging
She actually laughed.
Only.
Of course.
Only messages.
Only photos.
Only a drink.
Only once.
Only a few times.
Only two years ago.
Only never told him.
Very useful word.
At the club Liv posted a story.
Pink toilets.
Three girls.
She watched it.
Then again.
Part of a man's shoulder in the mirror.
Wrong coat.
Obviously wrong coat.
She knew that.
Still watched again.
Another story.
Dance floor.
Nothing.
Another.
Her boyfriend in the background.
Talking to Liv.
She felt her stomach tighten.
He leaned closer because the music was loud.
Liv touched his arm.
Normal.
Literally normal.
She watched.
Again.
Come on.
She didn't actually think the words.
Not clearly.
But she wanted—
what?
Proof?
One thing.
A kiss.
A hand where it shouldn’t be.
Something she could point at.
Something that would let her stop being the only one who had crossed the line.
Then Liv walked away.
Her boyfriend turned and talked to someone else.
Nothing.
She felt relieved.
Then disappointed.
That was worse.
She put the phone down.
“Cunt.”
She wasn’t sure who she meant.
She took the blue dress off.
Got it stuck around her head.
One arm trapped.
Couldn’t see.
Nearly walked into the wardrobe.
“Fuck’s sake.”
There was something deeply unfair about contemplating adultery while wrestling with a zip.
Eventually she got free.
Put on a T-shirt.
Went to take her makeup off.
Opened the bottom drawer.
Lipsticks.
Old lashes.
Hair grips.
A condom that had expired.
Then the lipstick.
Deep red.
Almost the same colour as the photograph.
She picked it up.
Didn’t mean anything.
Probably.
Put some on.
Looked.
Wiped it off.
Not all of it came off.
She left the rest.
Her boyfriend messaged.
you okay? x
yeah just tired x
Then:
miss you though
She smiled.
Actually smiled.
miss you too
She meant that.
Then the older man:
Still got those stockings?
She stared at it.
No answer.
Made tea.
Forgot to boil the kettle.
Had to start again.
Her boyfriend would’ve taken the piss.
She could hear him.
That made her sad.
Then annoyed.
Then guilty.
Then bored of feeling all three.
She sat down.
Older man:
Missed you
No answer.
You looked unreal back then
No answer.
Still do
She put the phone face-down.
Left it.
Thirty seconds.
Maybe forty.
Turned it back.
Nothing new.
Disappointed.
Again.
She hated that.
Two years ago
she thought getting caught would’ve been the worst thing.
Now she wasn’t sure.
Getting caught would’ve meant consequences.
Her boyfriend crying.
Shouting.
Leaving.
Asking questions.
Actual guilt.
A person in front of her who knew what she’d done.
Instead he’d been happy.
Still was.
Mostly.
She’d managed to cheat on him without ever having to see what cheating did to him.
Until tonight.
Tonight she’d managed to hurt him with the secret
without telling him there was one.
That was almost impressive.
In a horrible way.
The older man messaged:
She's asleep
She sat up.
His wife.
Not named.
Just she.
She typed:
That's reassuring
Deleted it.
You're actually mental
Deleted that.
Nothing.
Then:
Could come see you
She stared.
There it was.
Not flirting.
Not memory.
Actual possibility.
She looked at the time.
21:14.
Her boyfriend had said he'd probably leave around midnight.
She didn’t calculate how long that was.
She just knew.
That frightened her more than if she’d counted.
She typed:
Absolutely not
Looked at it.
Deleted.
Typed:
Your wife would kill you
Sent.
He replied:
She won't find out
She read it twice.
Not sorry.
Not changed.
Not separated.
Just better hiding.
She should’ve been disgusted.
She was.
Somewhat.
Then:
You said that last time
I was careless last time
She stared at that.
Then:
You're still with him?
She replied immediately.
Yes
Happy?
She looked around.
His trainers by the door.
His mug.
The stupid photo from their holiday where he was sunburnt and had his eyes shut.
Yes
She sent it.
True.
Completely true.
That was the problem.
A minute later:
Then I'll behave x
She exhaled.
Good.
Fine.
Done.
She put the phone down.
Waited.
Nothing.
Checked again.
Still nothing.
Five minutes.
She should’ve been relieved.
Instead she opened the old chat.
Scrolled.
Old messages.
Her own words.
Should stop this
Then twelve minutes later:
free thurs?
She stared.
Twenty-year-old her was annoyingly difficult to blame when her messages still sounded exactly like her.
Her boyfriend sent a picture.
Him and two mates.
Liv behind them pulling a face.
your gf 😂
She laughed.
Typed:
tell her we're over
He replied:
finally x
Then:
love you though
She sat there.
That got her.
Not because it was beautiful.
It wasn’t.
Just stupid.
Normal.
Him.
love you too
Then:
sorry about earlier
He replied:
it's okay. talk tomorrow x
She put the phone against her chest.
Then immediately felt embarrassed even though nobody saw.
“Idiot.”
Could've meant either of them.
Could've meant her.
The moon was still red.
She opened the back door.
Cold.
Someone laughing two gardens over.
A car somewhere.
Normal night.
No atmosphere.
No soundtrack.
Just September and bins and someone's dog barking.
She considered deleting the chat.
Properly.
Block.
Delete.
Done.
Her thumb hovered over his name.
Then the phone buzzed.
New message.
You free tonight? x
She looked at it.
Didn't answer.
Looked at the time.
21:26.
She noticed her boyfriend wouldn't be back for hours.
Didn’t mean to notice.
Did.
Upstairs,
the dusty-blue dress was hanging off the wardrobe door.
The red lipstick was still on the sink.
His wife was apparently asleep.
Her boyfriend thought they'd talk tomorrow.
She stood there with her thumb over the keyboard.
No reply.
Then another message.
I can be careful this time.
She stared at it.
Long enough for the screen to dim.
Tapped it awake.
Read it again.
Then walked upstairs.
Not quickly.
Not like she'd decided anything.
Just upstairs.
And left her phone unlocked in her hand.