Speaker 1: I could hear the clink of glassware and low, golden
Speaker 1: laughter from a couple at the next table, a soundtrack
Speaker 1: for the kind of Saturday night that restaurants hope for.
Speaker 1: The wine glasses in front of me, one poured for
Speaker 1: each of us, didn't fit. I kept shifting mine a little,
Speaker 1: trading hands, pretending to consider another sip, anything that could
Speaker 1: pass for casual, to the microscopic attention of servers, who
Speaker 1: I imagined had begun to feel sorry for me. Around
Speaker 1: the forty minute mark, I'd picked the table by the
Speaker 1: window for the view, one of those perfect tree lined
Speaker 1: streets of wicker chairs and crisp white tablecloths. The neighborhood,
Speaker 1: up market but not flashy. We weren't the sort to
Speaker 1: do this every week, but it was our anniversary, six
Speaker 1: years mark, and I had built something here, I told myself,
Speaker 1: a life that felt like the kind that adults more
Speaker 1: responsible than us once had. He'd reserved at this place
Speaker 1: before Old School Chicago with a twist, he'd said, flashing
Speaker 1: a grin as he scrolled the menu earlier this week,
Speaker 1: nudging my knee under the kitchen table. That day, I'd
Speaker 1: believed he wanted this as much as I did now.
Speaker 1: I watched the condensation trail down the untouched glass across
Speaker 1: from me. I checked the time again, eight forty seven,
Speaker 1: then eight fifty three, then nine zero two. Every minute
Speaker 1: forced me to tap the screen, as if more illumination
Speaker 1: would explain why he had vanished. When he first started running,
Speaker 1: Mark had warned me about these long Saturday races. Sometimes
Speaker 1: the pack just gets carried away, Babe, he'd said, don't
Speaker 1: wait for me if I'm late. But tonight, I'd texted
Speaker 1: him at seven twenty two, Hey, reservation is for seven
Speaker 1: thirty running behind, and nothing at eight thirteen another All okay,
Speaker 1: wondering if I should order no response, not even those
Speaker 1: three dots. The server, a thin woman with a practiced,
Speaker 1: exhausted smile, came twice, asking if I wanted the kitchen
Speaker 1: to hold mine entray, or would I like an appetizer
Speaker 1: for now. I finally let her set down the amuse
Speaker 1: bouch something with beets, orange and goat cheese, out of
Speaker 1: place and oddly lonely, and told her to go ahead,
Speaker 1: just bring the fish. When my phone finally buzzed at
Speaker 1: nine seventeen, I felt it somewhere in my chest the
Speaker 1: way you feel relief and hurt, colliding too fast to
Speaker 1: separate them. Mark, Sorry, something came up. I'll explain later.
Speaker 1: Eat without me. Sorry. Nothing about the anniversary, not even
Speaker 1: an apology, so much as a place holder, like someone
Speaker 1: rescheduling a meeting. No little in joke. No, I love you. No,
Speaker 1: I'll be there as soon as I can. At that moment,
Speaker 1: every detail of the restaurant became exaggerated, the clink of
Speaker 1: a fork, the sticky spot beneath my shoe, the dull
Speaker 1: ache where my shoulders slumped. I thought of this morning,
Speaker 1: Mark already hunched into his black jacket before the alarm.
Speaker 1: I'd padded in hair, unwashed, sleep lines still pressed into
Speaker 1: my arms. Want me to get some eggs on, I'd murmured,
Speaker 1: still hopeful, still doing the nice wife thing, even though running,
Speaker 1: I'd learned, was sacred in a way nothing else was
Speaker 1: allowed to be. He waved me off without making eye contact,
Speaker 1: tying his laces fast, like extra seconds could be squeezed
Speaker 1: from not talking. I kissed the back of his neck.
Speaker 1: He grunted a non committal sound. If it meant anything
Speaker 1: at all, good luck, I tried. He shut the door
Speaker 1: softly behind him and was gone. Maybe later, when I
Speaker 1: replayed it, i'd realize how far the distance already stretched.
Speaker 1: But in the restaurant, I closed his message, left him
Speaker 1: on read, and pressed the glass of wine to my lips.
Speaker 1: When I finally stood up to leave, the server met
Speaker 1: my gaze just long enough to ask softly, would you
Speaker 1: like the bill or I nodded, feeling the hot pulse
Speaker 1: of shame climbed my neck for being stood up, for
Speaker 1: I hadn't been for the way the table across from
Speaker 1: me was still perfectly set, a place for a husband
Speaker 1: who had chosen not to show up. Outside the bestro,
Speaker 1: lights twined above the sidewalk, coupled figures strolled by, the
Speaker 1: air crisper than it had been all day. I held
Speaker 1: my coat tight against my body, scrolling Mark's message again,
Speaker 1: hoping absurdly for some mistext, some clue that could make
Speaker 1: this feel like a misunderstanding. All I had was something
Speaker 1: came up, Something was always coming up. Lately. My walk
Speaker 1: home was longer than it should have been for the
Speaker 1: shoes I'd picked, and each block felt like another layer
Speaker 1: of the night closing in. I tried to tell myself
Speaker 1: that people tangled their schedules that things ran late, that
Speaker 1: surely something just unavoidable had happened. Yet there was a
Speaker 1: gravity to this absence, a sense, quiet and persistent, of
Speaker 1: being left behind, not once, but over weeks, perhaps months,
Speaker 1: in increments so small I hadn't seen them forming the pattern.
Speaker 1: At night, the city's lights washed the ceiling above our
Speaker 1: bed with shifting grids. I kept the lamps switched on,
Speaker 1: phone in my palm, mark's presence, his keys on the hook,
Speaker 1: his mug in the sink was everywhere and nowhere. I
Speaker 1: turned the ring on my finger, pressing it against my
Speaker 1: skin until it pinched. It would be almost dawn before
Speaker 1: I slept. Long before then, I rehearsed excuses for him
Speaker 1: in my mind, cycling through each possible crisis he might
Speaker 1: claim when he finally arrived home, if he came home
Speaker 1: at all. In those hours, the gravity became heavy enough
Speaker 1: that even my hope, worn thin by repetition, felt reckless.
Speaker 1: If there's a moment you become aware your marriage has
Speaker 1: developed an invisible fracture, maybe this was mine, a silent restaurant,
Speaker 1: my reflection in the dark window, a string of apologies,
Speaker 1: never quite making the distance. Six years and I'd never
Speaker 1: felt so remote from the person I loved long before
Speaker 1: it was ever about running or races or missing a date.
Speaker 1: Mark was the most present person in any room. I
Speaker 1: remember the first time I saw him at a friend's
Speaker 1: housewarming in Bucktown, a spill over of twenty somethings pressed
Speaker 1: into a cold apartment. He'd been telling an outlandish improv
Speaker 1: story about his worst summer job ever, hands drawing shapes
Speaker 1: in the air, laughter rolling out of him like something physical.
Speaker 1: You could not pay attention. When he caught my eye,
Speaker 1: he winked, as if we were already in on a
Speaker 1: joke together. From the start, Mark seemed propelled by a
Speaker 1: kind of reckless enthusiasm that made you want to do something, anything,
Speaker 1: just for the adventure of it. We debuilt this life
Speaker 1: on that momentum, matching apartments, little traditions, Thursday night takeout
Speaker 1: from green tea garden, urban hikes up the lake after work,
Speaker 1: stumbling home from late night trivia pizza boxes balanced between us.
Speaker 1: I always sought out routines to keep myself sane after
Speaker 1: a long day sketching in the studio or wrangling client
Speaker 1: demands from offices that felt like overgrown dioramas. Mark floated
Speaker 1: from freelance gigs in social media to a marketing agency
Speaker 1: that liked his charm as much as his pitch slides.
Speaker 1: Our matching business became a game. If my deadlines stacked
Speaker 1: too high, he'd make dinner and tape up a creative
Speaker 1: genius at work do not disturb sign on my home
Speaker 1: office door. When his projects went sideways or a client
Speaker 1: dropped out, we'd blow our budget on cheap Asian fusion
Speaker 1: and binge terrible TV until the laugh track replaced our anxiety.
Speaker 1: Not every couple gets to sidestep the normal pressure about
Speaker 1: families and futures as easily, but we made it a
Speaker 1: philosophy from the start. No kids, not now, maybe not ever.
Speaker 1: We used to wear that choice like a badge, the
Speaker 1: future wide open couple, smug with freedom, explaining it matter
Speaker 1: of factly to our parents, grinning at each other as
Speaker 1: if we'd cracked some code. Our friends had opinions, of course,
Speaker 1: Megan from my office would hint about getting serious, but
Speaker 1: usually our group of city dwellers were too distracted by
Speaker 1: their own deadlines and concerts to press. My closest friends. Ivy,
Speaker 1: fellow architect and ruthless critic of my taste in movies.
Speaker 1: Tasha Nurse irreverent brunch philosopher, and Elina heartbroken musician, too
Speaker 1: talented for half the gigs she took. Anchored my weekends.
Speaker 1: We'd meet for bottomless mimosas, dissect the latest break ups
Speaker 1: and career in dignities, and swear off relationships at least
Speaker 1: once a month. Mark was mildly amused by our rituals,
Speaker 1: happy to let me claim saturdays as mine. It balanced
Speaker 1: against his standing basketball games or Sunday morning golf with
Speaker 1: Owen and Drew, his college roommates, both relieably louder and
Speaker 1: less mature than Mark, but full of stories and inside
Speaker 1: jokes that seemed permanent as stone. We rarely needed each
Speaker 1: other to fill every social gap. The indendance was a
Speaker 1: point of pride, a kind of urban Darwinism. At least
Speaker 1: in those first years. It meant we weren't codependent, we said.
Speaker 1: It meant we had room to be ourselves, or so
Speaker 1: I believed until I began to catch the small changes,
Speaker 1: the flickers of agitation that crossed Mark's face when he
Speaker 1: came home to a crowded apartment, the sharpness in his
Speaker 1: voice when my plans ran late. For a while, I
Speaker 1: blamed work stress from his new job, the endless pivots
Speaker 1: of agency life. But even at his worst, Mark had
Speaker 1: always been an open book, a man whose feelings were
Speaker 1: splattered across his features, never hidden away. He was my
Speaker 1: first call when I landed my promotion last fall, the
Speaker 1: first voice I had wanted when my father's health scare
Speaker 1: sent me into free fall two years ago. Mark had
Speaker 1: driven three hours home from a work trip, straight to
Speaker 1: my side, armed with snacks he knew I wouldn't eat,
Speaker 1: and stories to make me laugh about the hospital's carpeting.
Speaker 1: That was just him, loyal, exhausting, sometimes too, but always
Speaker 1: reliable when it counted. I asked as much of myself
Speaker 1: for him, Knights holding him as he ranted about a
Speaker 1: client's betrayal, morning, slipping a note in his briefcase when
Speaker 1: he'd lost a job, Standing quietly through ruinous rounds of layoffs,
Speaker 1: his confidence only rarely dipped, but when it did, it
Speaker 1: was my job to pick up the pieces. This, I
Speaker 1: told myself, was love at its core, knowing each other's
Speaker 1: messes well enough to sweep them up even if no
Speaker 1: one else saw the pile. But lately, even our messes
Speaker 1: didn't fit together the way they used to. Over the
Speaker 1: last year, everything crowded in deadlines and meetings, family obligations, friends, dramas.
Speaker 1: Through it all, Mark always returned to routines. He trusted
Speaker 1: weekend golf, the standing basketball games, a quick beer with
Speaker 1: Owen after work. Until one March afternoon, he stood in
Speaker 1: the kitchen holding a flyer. Started a neighborhood run club.
Speaker 1: He announced meet ups every week Sunrise you in. He
Speaker 1: held the flier out to me like a trophy. The
Speaker 1: edge of his excitement caught me by surprise. For months,
Speaker 1: Mark had complained of feeling sluggish, restless, maybe a product
Speaker 1: of fewer big nights out. Maybe stress may be just
Speaker 1: a creeping sense of getting older. I was happy to
Speaker 1: see him animated about something that wasn't a streaming service
Speaker 1: or yet another fantasy sports league. For a split second,
Speaker 1: I imagined us training together, maybe conquering a ten k,
Speaker 1: joining those couples who flirted at the finished line with
Speaker 1: matching medals. But when I'd suggested as much, what if
Speaker 1: I come just once be your water girl, his smile faltered. Now, Babe,
Speaker 1: he said, lightly, it's just my thing. You know, need
Speaker 1: time with the guise, besides, you hate running, I didn't exactly.
Speaker 1: I tolerated it anyway when I had time. Still, it
Speaker 1: felt easier to respect his wish for space than argue
Speaker 1: for inclusion. Wasn't that what had always kept us smooth?
Speaker 1: He started sleeping with his phone under his pillow, an
Speaker 1: old habit resurrected in case I need to check pace
Speaker 1: numbers when I wake up. The first Saturday he left,
Speaker 1: I didn't notice the length of his absence or whether
Speaker 1: he even texted while he was gone. His enthusiasm overwhelmed
Speaker 1: any worry, and when he returned, exhausted but lit up,
Speaker 1: sweating through his own compliments, crushed it seven miles, didn't
Speaker 1: even walk. I had nothing but praise. Soon it became regular,
Speaker 1: every Saturday before dawn, the careful set of his alarm,
Speaker 1: the race day energy that left him all nerves and
Speaker 1: fidgeting as he prept gear the night before, laying out shoes, gels,
Speaker 1: bottle weather ap glowing on the countertop. After the first
Speaker 1: four or five week ends, I realized I'd stopped asking
Speaker 1: who he ran with. He made passing mention of the crew,
Speaker 1: sometimes tossing out first names. Jeff Myles, cass, but mostly
Speaker 1: it was vaguer and vaguer. The group chat, the usual suspects,
Speaker 1: not any one I knew well by the time they
Speaker 1: rolled around. The running club was less an event in
Speaker 1: our life than a dividing line through it. Saturday mornings
Speaker 1: belonged to Mark and his sunrise tribe. Somewhere between our
Speaker 1: first nervous five K jokes and this new regime, the
Speaker 1: details faded. I worried about him getting hurt on some
Speaker 1: dark sidewalk, but he brushed it off. We stick together, Babe,
Speaker 1: You worry too much. He was home later each week,
Speaker 1: trailing sweetsur sweat, eyes glittering with adrenaline. Sometimes his mood
Speaker 1: was electric, other times he was irritable, diving into a shower,
Speaker 1: napping for hours, unreachable. I stopped asking if he wanted
Speaker 1: to join me for brunch with the girls. It felt
Speaker 1: like a fair trade. Saturday mornings to him afternoons to me,
Speaker 1: each of us keeping our own slices of independence intact.
Speaker 1: It wasn't until late in June that the first jagged
Speaker 1: seed of doubt crept in. I was cutting through the
Speaker 1: little park across from Java River Caffe, a place I
Speaker 1: stopped every other Saturday on my post brunch walks with Tasha.
Speaker 1: When I saw Emma, we d met a handful of
Speaker 1: times over pastries. She worked across the street and had
Speaker 1: always worn an easy smile that made her seem like
Speaker 1: she belonged to every group in the neighborhood. To day,
Speaker 1: she was laughing with someone from the club, stretching out
Speaker 1: beside a folding table covered in orange slices and bottled water.
Speaker 1: I spotted Mark's running shoes in the pile with the others. Hey, Emma,
Speaker 1: I called, waving. She grinned, wind blown and pink faced. Samantha,
Speaker 1: missed you at yoga last month. We chatted for a
Speaker 1: minute about the weather. Then she gestured to the cluster
Speaker 1: of runners. You run with these guys. I shook my head. No,
Speaker 1: just here to say hi. My husband Mark runs with
Speaker 1: you lot. He's always bragging about who's the fastest. Her
Speaker 1: eyebrows crinkled. Husband, you mean Mark C I guess I
Speaker 1: never heard he was married. She let out a little laugh,
Speaker 1: uncertain as if she might have the wrong person. I
Speaker 1: made one of those self mocking jokes we city couples
Speaker 1: hiding in plain sight and changed the subject. But as
Speaker 1: we parted, I couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd
Speaker 1: phrased it. Never heard he was married. Was Mark so
Speaker 1: private or had he decided I didn't belong in the
Speaker 1: version of himself he performed for the running group. I
Speaker 1: told myself Emma was new to the club, that Mark
Speaker 1: didn't parade his whole life at every get together, that
Speaker 1: maybe she just missed a mention. After all, Mark was
Speaker 1: the most social person. I knew he could be talking
Speaker 1: to four people at once and keep each story straight. Still,
Speaker 1: that night, when I brought up seeing Emma and asked
Speaker 1: about the group, he shrugged me off. Honestly, Babe, it's
Speaker 1: just a crowd from around the neighborhood, he said, eyes
Speaker 1: locked to the screen, nothing special, don't worry about it.
Speaker 1: I thought about pushing making a joke about my secret identity,
Speaker 1: but the mood was sparse, and I let it drop.
Speaker 1: From there, something subtle warped in our routine. Mark's mood
Speaker 1: spun like a weather vane. One evening, he'd fall across
Speaker 1: the couch, legs tangled in mine, recounting his sprints or
Speaker 1: side stitches, inviting me to laugh at the way Jerry
Speaker 1: once tripped over a dog on Monroe. The next he
Speaker 1: seemed distant, picking apart my plans with friends, or tossing
Speaker 1: out barbes about how I was never home any more.
Speaker 1: He complained my work's schedule was out of control, that
Speaker 1: maybe he'd break his record for most solo takeout dinners
Speaker 1: this week. The criticisms were sharper than the old ribbing.
Speaker 1: I started second guessing my happy hour plans, not out
Speaker 1: of guilt exactly, but because the snappish comments lingered long
Speaker 1: into the night. It was the Saturday in early July
Speaker 1: when Mark forgot his wallet that the coil of suspicion
Speaker 1: inside me tightened a little more. He'd texted from the
Speaker 1: sidewalk half an hour after sunrise, Babe, can you run
Speaker 1: my wallet down? Flew out in a hurry, Thanks EXO.
Speaker 1: When I fished through his worn brown bifled, a slip
Speaker 1: of paper caught my attention. Folded around a coffee house
Speaker 1: loyalty card. Was a narrow receipt printed in neat, looping handwriting,
Speaker 1: four M plus K, drawn with an extravagant heart after
Speaker 1: the cave, from a counter i'd never heard of in
Speaker 1: a leafy suburb, dated a week before the handwriting felt
Speaker 1: personal mark burst up the steps as I was still
Speaker 1: holding it. His face, sweat streaked, flushed, broke into a
Speaker 1: hasty grin. When I handed over the wallet and the receipt,
Speaker 1: he barely glanced at it, muttered something about group stuff,
Speaker 1: and stuffed it away before ushering me out with a
Speaker 1: distracted nod. I let him go, but the seed of
Speaker 1: our knease pressed hard in my chest. That week, he
Speaker 1: began keeping his phone screened down on the side table
Speaker 1: the first time since we'd moved in. One night, I
Speaker 1: went to charge it and found it locked. The code
Speaker 1: the same since we'd met, must have changed. When I
Speaker 1: asked if his settings had glitched, he gave me a
Speaker 1: look I couldn't decipher equal parts tired and defiant, paranoid
Speaker 1: much he asked and turned away. He'd been spending more
Speaker 1: time in the bedroom, doors shut supposedly just decompressing works
Speaker 1: a nightmare right now. Some nights I could hear the
Speaker 1: buzz of notifications, but when I entered the room, he'd
Speaker 1: pocket his phone face blank. Then over dinner he'd swing
Speaker 1: the other way over the top, affectionate, acting out old jokes,
Speaker 1: pouring me a drink, or reading terrible news headlines in
Speaker 1: ridiculous voices. One Friday, I met his old college friends
Speaker 1: Owen and Drew at a dive bar in Lincoln Park,
Speaker 1: congratulating myself for finally making time for Mark's side of
Speaker 1: our social world. He's been ghosting us. Owen blurted, slapping
Speaker 1: down cards with a laugh. We thought you too were
Speaker 1: on some health kick and forgot how to party. When
Speaker 1: I asked if he'd joined their Sunday leagues lately, Drew
Speaker 1: shook his head, confused, naw. Last time I saw Mark
Speaker 1: was what Memorial Day. Mark had told me just last
Speaker 1: week about a crazy hang out with them. My ears
Speaker 1: hummed as I nodded along. Maybe they'd forgotten, or maybe
Speaker 1: Mark had needed an alibi for something. I pushed the
Speaker 1: thought away, swirling my drink so long my hand went numb.
Speaker 1: When I tried one Saturday to join Mark for his run,
Speaker 1: he recoiled. Can you not to day, he said, pulling
Speaker 1: his laces tight with hands a little too quick. It's
Speaker 1: an invite only thing, club policy. We do some interval
Speaker 1: work outside a slow down the pack. I could hear
Speaker 1: the sharpness in his tone, a defensive wall snapping up
Speaker 1: next race maybe he added, softening it a shade. Instead
Speaker 1: of arguing, I retreated to my brunch with Ivy and Tasher,
Speaker 1: telling myself not every shared hobby needed to be a
Speaker 1: marriage project. But I felt newly self conscious at brunch,
Speaker 1: I'm muddied details about Mark's big race, offering nothing in
Speaker 1: particular about his schedule. Ivy's gaze lingered longer than usual,
Speaker 1: her look a shade too. Knowing, Tasha leaned closer, voice
Speaker 1: pitched low as she asked, everything good with you? Guys,
Speaker 1: haven't seen him around much. Work's crazy, I parried, he's
Speaker 1: on this running kick. They exchanged a glance and I
Speaker 1: changed the subject, but their conversation washed out in my mind,
Speaker 1: the details slippery as fog. It was as if I'd
Speaker 1: broken a rule, one about pretending normalcy in front of
Speaker 1: people who care. Later, I scrolled through social media. The
Speaker 1: running group's Instagram was all cheery selfies and blurry team
Speaker 1: shots from dawn. Mark was conspicuously absent in most posts,
Speaker 1: but a woman named Kelsey mid thirties, short hair, bright
Speaker 1: coloured gear tagged him in stories with little running memes
Speaker 1: and private in jokes about sticker shock and Muz's legendary
Speaker 1: sprint fails. Sometimes Mark commented quick replies and emojis with
Speaker 1: strangers that would mean nothing, but I had never heard
Speaker 1: him mention Kelsey. His phone habits changed again, airplane mode
Speaker 1: for hours, or sudden unexplained trips to the shower with
Speaker 1: his phone cradled in a towel. One afternoon, I logged
Speaker 1: into our joint checking account to transfer grocery money. Over
Speaker 1: and over charges lit up from places I'd never heard of.
Speaker 1: Coffee at green Spoon cafe in a neighboring suburb, late
Speaker 1: meals at two different bars in neighborhoods not on the
Speaker 1: race circuit, charges for lift rides at odd hours, all
Speaker 1: on Saturdays or late Friday nights. The sums went suspicious
Speaker 1: six bucks fifteen twenty, but the pattern was Mark usually
Speaker 1: prided himself on no secret spending, a pledge he still
Speaker 1: made after his lay off the previous summer. Had the
Speaker 1: routine shifted so much? Or was I looking for pattens
Speaker 1: where none existed? The next Saturday, over eggs Benedict and Mises,
Speaker 1: I tried to snap out of the sight to listen
Speaker 1: as i'veyvented about a back stabbing project manager or as
Speaker 1: Tasha recounted a terrible date, most of my words shot
Speaker 1: out flat and artificial, my mind scanning for possible explanations
Speaker 1: for the envelopes of doubt. When conversation turned toward Mark,
Speaker 1: I waved it off. Were just missing each other a
Speaker 1: lot with work and fitness stuff, and found myself defensive
Speaker 1: over nothing. They drifted from curiosity into kindness, letting me
Speaker 1: set the limits. After that, I kept most of it
Speaker 1: to myself, the half theories, the creeping every night gut churn.
Speaker 1: I thought about texting Emma, the running group, Cafe Barista,
Speaker 1: or even snooping Mark's phone, But each time I pictured
Speaker 1: my own voice echoing back, sounding like a jealous stereotype,
Speaker 1: a wife inventing infidelities from innocent hiding places. I reminded
Speaker 1: myself of Mark's warmth our history, how much he'd helped
Speaker 1: me through my own secrets. Not every relationship needed to
Speaker 1: survive total tre tansparency to stay healthy. Yet each new
Speaker 1: oddity made me flinch. For a while, I convinced myself
Speaker 1: the problem was mine. Was either one turning every day
Speaker 1: quirks into a full blown crisis. Was my insomnia causing
Speaker 1: me to jump at shadows. It was easier to be
Speaker 1: unsure in private than to learn how little any one
Speaker 1: else could reassure me. One week before our anniversary, I
Speaker 1: stood in the doorway of our bedroom, watching as Mark
Speaker 1: finished folding a load of his running gear. You okay,
Speaker 1: I asked, careful to sound casual. You seem wound up lately.
Speaker 1: He glanced at me with the muted irritation of someone
Speaker 1: already moving on from a conversation. Just tired, he said,
Speaker 1: rubbing his forehead. Long week product launch Monday. Do you
Speaker 1: want to hang with Owen and Drew tonight? I offered,
Speaker 1: I can meet Ivy or just veg out. He shrugged,
Speaker 1: not in the mood. Just want to watch the game
Speaker 1: alone for a chain, if that's okay. Minutes later I
Speaker 1: heard the lock snick. He'd left no explanation. When he
Speaker 1: finally returned. It was late, the apartment thick with the
Speaker 1: smell of rain soaked pavement. I kept my eyes closed,
Speaker 1: but listened to him shuffle through the kitchen, the fridge
Speaker 1: door hissing open and shut. The whisper of his phone's
Speaker 1: glass scrolled quickly in the next room. My worry became
Speaker 1: its own routine, A secret I hid even from myself.
Speaker 1: By the morning of our anniversary, I'd rehearsed every scenario,
Speaker 1: a surprise trip, a reserved table, and flowers. Even God
Speaker 1: helped me a clumsy apology over breakfast. That's why when
Speaker 1: Mark slid from bed in his usual hush, rebuffing my
Speaker 1: attempts to make eggs, giving a distracted, perfunctory thanks, I
Speaker 1: found myself unwilling to push. He kneaded space. Maybe it
Speaker 1: would pass, But the message hours later, the nothing special,
Speaker 1: carelessly distant something came up, was the nail through my life.
Speaker 1: Fast excuse. The distance in those few words was more
Speaker 1: threatening than all the unlocked phones and disappearing weekends. Even
Speaker 1: after that, I made myself believe we could still close
Speaker 1: that distance, if only I understood what I was really
Speaker 1: looking for. The days after the anniversary were thick with
Speaker 1: a cold, silent truce. Mark apologized over text for missing dinner,
Speaker 1: claimed he'd lost track of time, blamed chaos at the race.
Speaker 1: In the evenings, he was almost attentive, cooking a half
Speaker 1: hearted pastor pouring my favorite wine, making half jokes about
Speaker 1: next year, we'll just order pizza and skip expectations. Yet
Speaker 1: each small gesture sounded, practiced, his gaze often unfocused, thumbing
Speaker 1: his phone through dinner in a way that made every
Speaker 1: conversation thin and brittle. My office buzzed with new clients,
Speaker 1: the low hum of productivity saving me from fully unraveling.
Speaker 1: At breaks, I found myself staring at my phone, reviewing
Speaker 1: credit card his way, the same three runners, Instagram feeds,
Speaker 1: the unreadable group chat updates. Every plausible scenario. Was Mark
Speaker 1: hiding money? Trouble? Was he depressed? Spilled out in my
Speaker 1: mind until any of them could fit. One Monday night,
Speaker 1: as I reheated left over stirfry, I stood for a
Speaker 1: long while at the kitchen counter, watching Mark's scroll through
Speaker 1: his phone in the living room. He looked tired, dark
Speaker 1: circles blooming beneath his eyes, but his fingers flew over
Speaker 1: the screen. When I stepped in, he quickly palmed the device,
Speaker 1: then forced a smile. Get dinner to morrow with your girls,
Speaker 1: he said, abruptly. I'm out late again, some running group,
Speaker 1: planning thing for the next half marathon. The part of
Speaker 1: me that was still hopeful wanted to believe in the
Speaker 1: new healthy Mark, not the old happy hour one who
Speaker 1: might have run from problems the way others ran from exercise,
Speaker 1: but Mark had always been present at anniversaries at key moments.
Speaker 1: If our sixth wasn't enough to break his routine, what
Speaker 1: was Wednesday? I tried again. Is everything okay? I asked,
Speaker 1: as gently as I could. Are we okay? He bristled,
Speaker 1: but there was a flicker of something sad in his eyes.
Speaker 1: Why wouldn't we be, he answered, voice flat. You're always
Speaker 1: gone too. Can't there just be a week where we're
Speaker 1: not policing each other? That's not what this is, I said,
Speaker 1: letting a bit of exasperation show. You just seem far away,
Speaker 1: he snapped, staring at your phone. Judging my tik tok
Speaker 1: is hardly far away, Sam, I bit my tongue. Unwilling
Speaker 1: to escalate, He retreated to the bedroom and I returned
Speaker 1: to the couch. Our routines running parallel, only sometimes intersecting.
Speaker 1: One Saturday in early August, I found a new receipt
Speaker 1: in the laundry, another coffee shop, another handwritten note, this
Speaker 1: one reading post run treat next time my place, kay.
Speaker 1: The date was last Sunday. I twisted the paper for
Speaker 1: a long while, telling myself it could be a running joke.
Speaker 1: Some group banter meaningless, but the smiley face at the
Speaker 1: end was shaped and expressive, not generic, the way a
Speaker 1: group joke would be. I slipped it into my wallet.
Speaker 1: That afternoon, I checked Mark's root on his running app
Speaker 1: one that sinked occasionally with mine long neglected, and noticed
Speaker 1: an entry logged from an unfamiliar suburb forty minutes from
Speaker 1: the city neighborhood race he'd claimed. The group's instagram showed
Speaker 1: no mention of a race. That day, I told myself
Speaker 1: again again that curiosity did not equal evidence, that coincidences happened.
Speaker 1: That night, Mark returned home late. The apartment was quiet
Speaker 1: except the television's flickering blue. He carried a jim bag,
Speaker 1: the zipper barely closed. When he showered. I noticed a faint,
Speaker 1: powdery scent on his running clothes. Not cologne, not sweat,
Speaker 1: but something floral. I opened his jim bag, guilt mixing
Speaker 1: with desperation. Inside, between a packet of energy gels and headphones,
Speaker 1: I found a small, cheap jewelry box, empty except for
Speaker 1: the scent. I put everything back, careful not to disturb anything.
Speaker 1: Mark came out in sweat's hair damp, talking fast about
Speaker 1: needing to check emails before bed. I asked if everything
Speaker 1: was all right, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
Speaker 1: He nodded, eyes averted, just tired, Sam big week. The
Speaker 1: next morning, I scrolled through our location history on the
Speaker 1: bank app, noting another lift trip midday from the suburb
Speaker 1: where the run had supposedly been ending, near an address
Speaker 1: I recognized as Kelsey's, the girl from the running group stories.
Speaker 1: For the first time, indignation burned hotter than grief, not
Speaker 1: because I had proof, but because my marriage now required
Speaker 1: an app and a spreadsheet to reconstruct his story. Could
Speaker 1: he really be that reckless? I caught myself assembling the
Speaker 1: beginnings of an inquisition and stopped instead. After work, I
Speaker 1: texted Emma, forcing myself to reach out. Hey, could you
Speaker 1: grab coffee this week? Would love to talk running stuff.
Speaker 1: I kept the tone breezy, pretending this was about maybe
Speaker 1: joining up at last. When she replied, sure, free Thursday
Speaker 1: after two, I felt both dread and a fractured hope.
Speaker 1: That Thursday, we sat in the sunlit corner of Java River,
Speaker 1: the cafes buzz thick between us. I asked open questions
Speaker 1: about the club, about its regulars, about Mark, Emma's face
Speaker 1: gave away little, but she hesitated. Kelsey's new to the group.
Speaker 1: She and Mark run together a lot. They tend to
Speaker 1: split off after big races. Sometimes people talk, but that's
Speaker 1: probably just group gossip, she paused. I always figured you
Speaker 1: two were very independent. He seems private. Her uncertainty made
Speaker 1: me want to defend him, but I shook my head
Speaker 1: and thanked her. That night, instead of asking Mark to explain,
Speaker 1: I watched him separate himself from the world, phone in hand,
Speaker 1: eyes unfocussed, saying little. He wasn't cruel, just absent. When
Speaker 1: he finally looked up, he asked a strange question. Do
Speaker 1: you ever wish we'd done things differently? His voice was flat,
Speaker 1: almost rehearsed, like what I asked. He shrugged anything work less,
Speaker 1: travel more. I wanted to say, be more present, you mean,
Speaker 1: but I let the moment fade. I spent hours that
Speaker 1: nights scrolling through Kelsey's social media, piecing together weekend trips,
Speaker 1: charity runs, nights out, small benign photos of beer glasses
Speaker 1: side by side, selfie shots with her at finished lines,
Speaker 1: Blurry shots with somebody, often out of frame, who could
Speaker 1: easily be marked at work. I strained my focus, drafts
Speaker 1: and blueprints, suffering for every moment my mind wandered. I
Speaker 1: tried talking to Ivy and Tasha about something else, t
Speaker 1: V work, drama, Ivy's new boyfriend, anything to disguise that
Speaker 1: life at home had become carefully, deliberately empty. Once, during
Speaker 1: a lunch break, Tasha turned to me and said, bluntly, Sam,
Speaker 1: are you actually happy? Like? Do you feel? Seen something?
Speaker 1: In Her tone, genuine not prying, made it worse. I shrugged,
Speaker 1: the only honest answer available. Mark started taking calls on
Speaker 1: the balcony when I was home, smiling, talking low. My
Speaker 1: feet itched to pace the living room with questions. I
Speaker 1: told myself I'd never ask. This was not absence or
Speaker 1: a passing storm. It was humiliation of a slow, daily kind.
Speaker 1: The Friday after our mist anniversary, I climbed into bed
Speaker 1: beside Mark, who was half asleep, already his body a
Speaker 1: barricade of muscle and tiredness. I lay there, sensing the
Speaker 1: quiet roar of suspicions, more frightened than angry marriage. I
Speaker 1: suppose survives through periods of not knowing, not needing to
Speaker 1: know every thought or movement, but now not knowing felt
Speaker 1: like a form of dishonesty my own as much as
Speaker 1: Marks days stumbled along Sundays overtook Saturdays. Silence fed silence.
Speaker 1: I waited for his story to change, for my courage
Speaker 1: to snap, for some sign of return. Sometimes my longing
Speaker 1: was so raw I almost believed a week end trip
Speaker 1: or a bouquet of apology flowers could restore what months
Speaker 1: of absence had eroded. But the evidence was overwhelming, and
Speaker 1: still I was waiting for permission to believe my own story.
Speaker 1: On the Wednesday that would become the turning point, Mark
Speaker 1: sat at the table, scrolling an email. An untouched glass
Speaker 1: of Seltzer sweating beside him. The television ignored, the room
Speaker 1: hum of a city not quite asleep. I said none
Speaker 1: of the things I meant about mistrust, about how tired
Speaker 1: I felt of my own wariness. Instead, I asked, is
Speaker 1: there something you need from me that I'm not giving,
Speaker 1: or something we need that we're not getting. Be honest
Speaker 1: with me, Mark. He looked up, blinking hard, his eyes
Speaker 1: glistening in the weird blue glow. I feel invisible, he
Speaker 1: said finally, voice rufugh, just not seen any more the
Speaker 1: running group. It makes me feel like There's still something
Speaker 1: left in me besides this apartment. I'm sorry about missing dinner.
Speaker 1: I know I've been useless, distracted, but I'm trying. He
Speaker 1: reached his hand across the table, squeezing mine, as if
Speaker 1: it could erase the months between us. He sounded so tired,
Speaker 1: so genuine, may be even as frightened deep down as
Speaker 1: I was. I don't know how to fix what's gone weird,
Speaker 1: he said, but I want to try. He apologized for
Speaker 1: the anniversary again, blaming overwork, overtraining, failing to keep up
Speaker 1: with every one all at once. He brought home flowers
Speaker 1: the next night from a corner market, battered and modest,
Speaker 1: but unmistakably an olive branch. He suggested, awkwardly but with effort,
Speaker 1: that we book a week nd away, recharged, some place
Speaker 1: up north, just us off the grid. There was a
Speaker 1: week maybe less, where I believed the thaw was happening.
Speaker 1: Mark started caring about details again, texting more, offering to
Speaker 1: grocery shop, joking about the horrors of old married couple syndrome.
Speaker 1: He even suggested I come to a charity run with
Speaker 1: his group next weekend. You'll love it, he said, And
Speaker 1: then a day later forgot to mention the details or
Speaker 1: send an invite. I wanted the hope, even as I
Speaker 1: felt myself weighing every gesture. Was I suspicious or simply
Speaker 1: re entering my own life? But the story, the fears,
Speaker 1: the routines, the evidence wasn't quite over. In the bottom
Speaker 1: of my purse. Two receipts lay folded beside a loyalty
Speaker 1: card on my phone, side by side the running group's
Speaker 1: Instagram and a new U notification from Mark's fitness app
Speaker 1: lit up. The app, neglected by him when we first
Speaker 1: started using it together, was now full of recent logs.
Speaker 1: I scrolled to Saturday, our anniversary. The run, according to
Speaker 1: his entry, logged not in our city, but from a
Speaker 1: leafy suburb well outside town, the same place. The coffee
Speaker 1: receipt was from a training session. He called it, leaving
Speaker 1: the start an end, low key but visible, the finished
Speaker 1: line just blocks from Kelsey's address. I stared at the
Speaker 1: bright blue map line for a long time, finger hovering,
Speaker 1: searching for an innocent explanation. If I confronted him, would
Speaker 1: he have one more plausible story, or would it be
Speaker 1: the moment everything I had refused to see became abruptly,
Speaker 1: damningly clear. But I wasn't there yet, not ready, not entirely,
Speaker 1: caught instead between hope and certainty, still yearning for an
Speaker 1: explanation that would let me love him without doubt. I
Speaker 1: slept poorly, the city's lights carving lines across our ceiling,
Speaker 1: my heart beating a rhythm. I could not ignore. Every
Speaker 1: creak of the apartment walls felt like a warning shot.
Speaker 1: I would have to keep searching, keep watching, as if,
Speaker 1: maybe by sheer persistence, I could still turn back from
Speaker 1: the truth I was inching toward. I started hiding my research,
Speaker 1: the way you hide something you're not sure is evidence,
Speaker 1: when nothing you own fits quite right, and you're left
Speaker 1: collecting lint in secret. My browser tabs sprawled across my
Speaker 1: phone late at night, How do I know if my
Speaker 1: husband is cheating? Sat next to YELP page for Kelsey's
Speaker 1: suburb brunch spot, and pitifully a forum called Runners, Spouses,
Speaker 1: Q and A. I clicked through anecdotes, half looking for
Speaker 1: a voice to reassure, half hoping for proof one way
Speaker 1: or the other. Each morning that week, I tested Mark
Speaker 1: in subtle ways, offered to pick up his running shorts
Speaker 1: after work. He snatched them from the laundry pile. I
Speaker 1: asked about dinner Friday, can't babe group charity meeting that charity?
Speaker 1: He run again, always future tents, always vapor. When pressed
Speaker 1: for specifics, I asked a second time, feigning cheerful interest,
Speaker 1: and he gave a many performance about the group forming
Speaker 1: a team, logistics not finished, total chaos. You wouldn't enjoy it.
Speaker 1: My questions fell into an echo chamber, never quite landing,
Speaker 1: always returned with a practiced smile and a pat on
Speaker 1: the hand. Wednesday, after drinks with Ivy and Elina, I
Speaker 1: lingered under street lights, rehearsing lines I might try on Mark.
Speaker 1: I spun stories aloud to the empty carousel of parked cars.
Speaker 1: Are you sleeping with some one else? Too blunt? Why
Speaker 1: am I not welcome in your life any more? Too desperate?
Speaker 1: I settled on nothing. By the time I got home,
Speaker 1: Mark was asleep on the couch t V, murmuring. For
Speaker 1: a moment, I simply watched him, his knees curled defensively
Speaker 1: to his chest, as if hoping his own body could
Speaker 1: keep the world at bay. I let myself be lulled
Speaker 1: by the next morning's small tenderness. A text from Mark
Speaker 1: already gone that reed, have a good day to day.
Speaker 1: I love you. Something felt hollow, but I gripped hard
Speaker 1: to the gesture, even replayed it when meetings at work
Speaker 1: dragged into the pointless territory. Late July, heat was settling
Speaker 1: over Chicago, the kind that stuck to the windows and
Speaker 1: made the brick buildings bleed haze. But I kept busy,
Speaker 1: pulling extra hours at the office. I wondered every day
Speaker 1: if anyone noticed how easily my mind snapped back from
Speaker 1: color boards and sketches to obsess over Mark. Did the
Speaker 1: nervous energy leak was I see through? When Tasha texted
Speaker 1: me Tuesday, just checking in. You seemed sad at brunch,
Speaker 1: I typed back something long, then deleted it. I wrote,
Speaker 1: all fine, just work, and she sent a piece emoji
Speaker 1: and didn't push. The following Saturday, I got up early,
Speaker 1: determined to catch Mark before he vanished. I padded into
Speaker 1: the kitchen as he was filling a bottle at the sink,
Speaker 1: shoes already on, headphones dangling from his neck. You're up,
Speaker 1: he said, not quite a question. I thought maybe we
Speaker 1: could get coffee after your run, you know, swap Saturday
Speaker 1: with Sunday brunch plans for once, he hesitated, sloshing water
Speaker 1: on to the counter. Carn't to day some one's birthday
Speaker 1: in the group. We're doing a long run, then a
Speaker 1: breakfast thing members only sorry, his words felt prepared too
Speaker 1: smoothly recited which member? He bristled, Why I just Emma
Speaker 1: mentioned a get together, and I wanted to say happy
Speaker 1: birthday if it was some one i'd met. Even as
Speaker 1: I heard it, the lie strung in my cheeks, obvious
Speaker 1: and half formed. Mark sighed too long. Kelsey, Actually, she's new,
Speaker 1: but seems to know every one already. I nodded, as
Speaker 1: though it didn't matter. Well, tell her congrats. He lingered
Speaker 1: a beat before leaving, as if searching my face for something.
Speaker 1: I plastered on a smile and waved, feeling a cho
Speaker 1: w Aldish need to match his feigned ease. Once the
Speaker 1: door snapped shut, I slid into the nearest chair and
Speaker 1: let my hands shake. Later, when I checked Instagram, Kelsey's
Speaker 1: feed was busy, filter heavy stories of sunrise over the
Speaker 1: lake front, video snippets of laughter, a blurry selfie with
Speaker 1: legendary company tagged. Mark's handle included though his face was
Speaker 1: nowhere to be seen. A short boomerang of two iced
Speaker 1: lattes clinking caption best Copalate, no group photos. I noticed
Speaker 1: just that narrow focus. My reaction, envy, anger, some flavor
Speaker 1: of sick curiosity, was sharp and immediate. I called Ivy
Speaker 1: to suggest an afternoon coffee. When I arrived, carrying sweat,
Speaker 1: sticky nervousness, she was already settling into her third espress.
Speaker 1: I'm worried about you, she said bluntly, her eyes holding
Speaker 1: mine in a way that made me want to flinch.
Speaker 1: You look like hell, sam, I offered her the standard lines,
Speaker 1: work is nuts. Anniversary was a train wreck. I think
Speaker 1: Mark's midlife crisis is progressing by the mile marker now.
Speaker 1: It was almost a joke. Her mouth compressed. That's not all, though,
Speaker 1: is it. There was a long pause. I stared out
Speaker 1: at a couple squabbling over a toddler's stray shoe. You
Speaker 1: ever get the feeling you're losing someone, but you don't
Speaker 1: know if it's real or just you changing. Ivy waited,
Speaker 1: refusing to give me an answer. Then is Mark seeing
Speaker 1: someone else? I shook my head too quickly. No, I
Speaker 1: don't think so. Not really, but I could feel the
Speaker 1: lie like a stone at the base of my tongue.
Speaker 1: Without real proof, even the smallest speculation felt radioactive. I
Speaker 1: changed the subject. We parted after a bout of nervous
Speaker 1: laughter and promises to do another game night when things
Speaker 1: calm down. We both knew that meant nothing. Back home,
Speaker 1: the guilt of half explanations sat heavy in my ribs.
Speaker 1: I was desperate for certainty, but no closer to it
Speaker 1: than the week before. The Next day, I resolved to
Speaker 1: look for something more concrete, just facts. I waited until
Speaker 1: Mark was in the shower, then pulled his jim bag
Speaker 1: from the closet, hands careful and shaking. I found a
Speaker 1: tangle of energy bars, tangled headphones, and a soft felt
Speaker 1: pouch inside an enamel pin shaped like a miniature running shoe,
Speaker 1: silver with a tiny green flash dangling from a slender chain,
Speaker 1: the kind of girly charm Kelsey might wear. For a moment,
Speaker 1: I wondered if it was meant for me, an abandoned gift,
Speaker 1: a surprise, but the bag smelled faintly of a sweet
Speaker 1: perfume I'd never owned. I pressed the zipper closed, heart thudding,
Speaker 1: and forced myself to smile. As Mark came out, towel wrapped.
Speaker 1: He didn't notice. He never noticed small things now. All
Speaker 1: week I watched for mentions anything in his tone about
Speaker 1: plans for the upcoming week end. He said nothing. I
Speaker 1: asked about the charity run once and he dodged, mumbling,
Speaker 1: still not firmed up. If it happens, I'm sure you'll
Speaker 1: hear that. Thursday, my phone vibrated with a bank alert
Speaker 1: and eight M withdrawal in a city north of Chicago.
Speaker 1: Late at night, I called to ask why needed cash
Speaker 1: to cover the bar split check. No one had change.
Speaker 1: I said nothing, but jotted the detail down in my
Speaker 1: own mental log book. Friday night, I sat at the
Speaker 1: dining table, slogging through edits on a speck design, fighting
Speaker 1: to keep my mind on window details instead of cardio alibis.
Speaker 1: Mark wandered in, changed into fresh clothes, blue shirt, dark
Speaker 1: jenes that still held the plastic creases from dry cleaning.
Speaker 1: I watched him run his hands through his hair three times,
Speaker 1: spritz cologne, check himself in the hall mirror. Big plans,
Speaker 1: I asked, forced light? He shrugged, just the crew kelse
Speaker 1: He's birthday dinner group thing. He caught my expression half
Speaker 1: way between grin and grimace. You want me home for
Speaker 1: movie night? Something in me snapped, just a little no,
Speaker 1: I said, go have fun. He hesitated in the doorway,
Speaker 1: maybe I thought, waiting for me to demand more, But
Speaker 1: I just sat there, pencil poised, and he left. I
Speaker 1: stared at the empty hush after the lock had settled,
Speaker 1: not moving until the light outside faded. I opened my laptop,
Speaker 1: fingers hovering should I google her address message someone in
Speaker 1: the group. My hands trembled as I typed her name
Speaker 1: into search fields and never used for stalking. Before Kelsey's
Speaker 1: face brightened the screen, a cropped square photo from a
Speaker 1: local ten k her arm around a man whose head
Speaker 1: was cropped out, but whose build and hair could have
Speaker 1: been marks. My ears buzzed enough. I closed the laptop
Speaker 1: and poured myself the rest of the pino. Hours later,
Speaker 1: Mark re turned, smelling of car air freshener and cheap
Speaker 1: celebratory cake. I pretended sleep, carrying that brittle silence into
Speaker 1: Sunday through coffee, laundry, the monotony of chores. Neither of
Speaker 1: us remarked. On Sunday night, his phone chirped on the
Speaker 1: side table and for once he forgot it. I tipped
Speaker 1: the screen only for a blink, a notification from K,
Speaker 1: a heart emoji, nothing more. The rest was locked behind
Speaker 1: a new password. I felt the heat in my cheeks,
Speaker 1: as if I'd been caught snooping in his soul, and
Speaker 1: the disgust that came with it was as sharp as
Speaker 1: my growing suspicion in bed. I pressed up against him,
Speaker 1: watched Mark pretend absorption in his phone until he rolled away.
Speaker 1: I fell asleep, reading an old thread of texts from
Speaker 1: our first year together, the comfort so distant it might
Speaker 1: as well have belonged to strangers. The next day, my
Speaker 1: anger plataued, giving way to cold clarity. I didn't want
Speaker 1: more hints, I wanted facts. I made a plan, simple
Speaker 1: and almost childish in its construction. I'd pick up his
Speaker 1: runner's packet from the club office, something spouses occasionally did
Speaker 1: for their partners. That way I could ask questions of
Speaker 1: the group, maybe see how the organizers regarded Mark, if
Speaker 1: wife was a known category on his sign up form,
Speaker 1: some small test of the water, I called the number
Speaker 1: listed on the club website. A woman answered, brisk and cheerful.
Speaker 1: I gave my name. Hi I'm picking up Mark Calhound's
Speaker 1: packet for Saturday, tall brown hair knew this season. A pause, Oh, Mark, Yes,
Speaker 1: actually he already picked up, says he and Kelsey are
Speaker 1: car pulling for the Foxfield race. Should be all set?
Speaker 1: My chest iced over. I thanked her, managed some polite
Speaker 1: question about event times, then hung up. Was Kelsey now
Speaker 1: Mark's officially listed emergency contact? Was she just a running
Speaker 1: buddy or something more? If it had been innocent, he
Speaker 1: could tell me about the car pooling, the shared plans.
Speaker 1: After work, I texted Emma again. This time my language
Speaker 1: was less careful. Hey does Mark run the Foxfield thing
Speaker 1: every year? I heard he's car pooling. Just curious how
Speaker 1: that works, she replied minutes later. First, I've heard he
Speaker 1: and Kelsey race together a lot, though not sure if
Speaker 1: it's romantic or just they click. Sorry if awkward. I
Speaker 1: wanted to ask, you mean sorry if I just realized
Speaker 1: I've been erased from my husband's story, But I said nothing.
Speaker 1: That night, Mark hovered in the bedroom, clearly antsy, packing
Speaker 1: running shoes and gear, draping his racing bib across the
Speaker 1: night stand. I looked at the numbers two thousand seventeen case,
Speaker 1: she must have written it in permanent marker, a looping
Speaker 1: flourish around his name. Don't wait up, he said, not unkindly.
Speaker 1: It's an early start and I'll come back tired. No
Speaker 1: plans Later, I asked, casual as a gun to my
Speaker 1: own head. He shrugged, clubbed dinner after probably just pizza
Speaker 1: and beers. I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek.
Speaker 1: After he left for bed, I lay awake, staring at
Speaker 1: the patterns of shadow and neon on our ceiling, listening
Speaker 1: to the shape of his breathing. In the morning, I
Speaker 1: watched him dress quickly, toss his bag over one shoulder,
Speaker 1: and leave. No hug, no ritual, just a muttered see
Speaker 1: ya to night, the same kind as toward a colleague
Speaker 1: or a neighbor, not the wife he'd once told his
Speaker 1: secrets to. Around noon, I tracked his run as best
Speaker 1: I could. The fitness app showed him starting far north,
Speaker 1: looping in a suburb, his celebratory coffee logged at a
Speaker 1: cafe i'd never heard of. Kelsey's Instagram, updated with a
Speaker 1: group shot mark cropped from the edge, was tagged epic
Speaker 1: run with my ride or diye the Ride the Die
Speaker 1: and me at home mid afternoon, after circling the apartment
Speaker 1: with meaninglessly busy tasks, I texted Mark, half praying for
Speaker 1: a prompt, loving response. He replied hours later a brief home.
Speaker 1: Late tired, might crash at jeff S. I called Jeff,
Speaker 1: made light conversation about a referral. He was out of
Speaker 1: town for a bachelor party. Genuinely surprised to hear from
Speaker 1: me Mark, he said, naw, probably a miscom He mentioned
Speaker 1: the run, but not sleeping over. Hope all's good, Sam.
Speaker 1: I faked a laugh, promised to give Mark his best,
Speaker 1: hung up and sat in the silence of our apartment.
Speaker 1: The room now a museum for absences and questions. My
Speaker 1: phone buzzed near six, a message from Mark, then another
Speaker 1: from an unrecognized number. When I opened Mark's it was clipped,
Speaker 1: got side tracked, see you tomorrow, Love you. The other
Speaker 1: was from Emma. Bumped into Mark and Kelsey at Foxfield,
Speaker 1: left together. Hope you're okay. I sat very still, night
Speaker 1: passed in broken pieces. Each sound in the apartment magnified
Speaker 1: a dish settling, a floorboard creaking. The loneliness was a
Speaker 1: physical ache. Sunday morning, Mark strolled in face, drawn and tired,
Speaker 1: carrying a half eaten bagel runner's bibs still crumpled in
Speaker 1: his nylon bag. I managed a smile, held the line.
Speaker 1: Good race, I asked, voice steady. He nodded, slumping into
Speaker 1: a kitchen chair, crushed it. Groups split off after the route.
Speaker 1: I stuck with Kelsey. We caught up on the slow miles.
Speaker 1: I wondered if he even realized what he was saying,
Speaker 1: the ease with which he spoke her name, the fate
Speaker 1: he assumed for my silence. He showered, then drifted through
Speaker 1: the day as if nothing was off. I cleaned the apartment,
Speaker 1: took out the recycling, sectioned my receipts into neat piles
Speaker 1: on the desk, bar tabs, lift trips, coffee from Green Spoon,
Speaker 1: duplicate charges from lunch spots north of the city. I
Speaker 1: ran our shared calendar against Kelsey's public posts, marking each
Speaker 1: overlap race days, late night celebrations, quiet rest days. With
Speaker 1: checkins logged at her apartment. It could almost have passed
Speaker 1: for normal, but the pattern was too consistent, too careful.
Speaker 1: I forced myself to sit with the evidence. The jewelry
Speaker 1: in his bag, the coffee, receipts, his absence at anniversaries,
Speaker 1: at events, in stories, the change in his passwords, the
Speaker 1: way he begun to draw back from every frictionless expression
Speaker 1: of care, even as he performed the bare minimum in public.
Speaker 1: I went to work Monday, half hollow, skipped lunch, came
Speaker 1: home to find Mark cooking, humming tunelessly, a show performed
Speaker 1: for empty seats. When he called me babe that night,
Speaker 1: the words sounded as foreign as a joke in a
Speaker 1: language I no longer spoke. That evening, just after dinner,
Speaker 1: I found his tablet open on the couch, notifications glow.
Speaker 1: I hesitated, then pressed the screen. He rarely used it,
Speaker 1: but it had once been sink to his old phone,
Speaker 1: likely never unlinked, and there under message requests. Dozens of
Speaker 1: chats with Kelsey, dating back months. Some playful can't believe
Speaker 1: you got that time, cheetah, Some intimate missed you at
Speaker 1: the lake next time just us, some almost loving wish
Speaker 1: I could have you in both lives. Soon three, a
Speaker 1: nausea rose in me, swift, hot and clarifying. I scrolled
Speaker 1: through photos sent back and forth, sweaty post race selfies,
Speaker 1: Kelsi's cat purring on her lap, blurry shots of beers
Speaker 1: against the sunset. Her birthday dinner brought a string of
Speaker 1: messages about leaving early, missing you already there was no ambiguity.
Speaker 1: Now I knew what I was seeing, However much my
Speaker 1: body rebelled at the certainty. I took screenshots, unable to
Speaker 1: help myself, then locked the tablet and sat in the
Speaker 1: dark kitchen shaking, part rage, part heartbreak, part the cold
Speaker 1: terror that comes when a story you've half written in
Speaker 1: your mind finally provides its ending. When Mark came into
Speaker 1: the kitchen for water, I almost asked, my voice cracked
Speaker 1: out instead with the one question that had first started
Speaker 1: all this. Did you ever think you could have both?
Speaker 1: He stared at me, unreadable, then turned away. The line
Speaker 1: between performance and reality had been erased. I could see
Speaker 1: now that he waited for me to push for something,
Speaker 1: to force the embers of confrontation, to let him decide
Speaker 1: which world his future would belong to. That night, I
Speaker 1: slept curled on the far side of the bed, facing
Speaker 1: the window, city lights flickering over my shoulder. When Mark's
Speaker 1: hand grazed my back, I flinched. He withdrew, breathing papery
Speaker 1: and thin morning, sunlight leaped in across his empty stretch
Speaker 1: of pillow, long after he'd vanished to run again. May
Speaker 1: be alone, maybe not. The silence that followed felt less
Speaker 1: like a wound than a verdict. It would take one
Speaker 1: more day, one more slip, one more lost alibi, for
Speaker 1: the final fracture to break wide open. But when I
Speaker 1: stood in the bathroom holding the running shoe charm, my
Speaker 1: own face pale and steadied in the mirror, I knew
Speaker 1: what was required of me now. What remained was only
Speaker 1: the act of making it visible, of letting the lie
Speaker 1: collapse under its own weight. I stood in the bathroom,
Speaker 1: holding the tiny silver running shoe charm between damp fingers.
Speaker 1: The scent of some one else's perfume hovered faintly above
Speaker 1: the clean soap of our shared sink. The lights in
Speaker 1: the apartment felt too bright, glinting on the metal and
Speaker 1: pricking at my tired eyes. The sound of Mark's footsteps
Speaker 1: on the hallway carpet snapped me upright, and I jammed
Speaker 1: the charm back into the zipped pouch, shoving the bag
Speaker 1: atop the wardrobe shelf as if hiding evidence from myself.
Speaker 1: I pressed my palms flat against the vanity, waiting for
Speaker 1: my breathing to keep pace with a reality I'd been
Speaker 1: circling for months. I found myself sitting on the edge
Speaker 1: of our bed, jeans twisted awkwardly at my ankles, not
Speaker 1: sure whether I dressed to leave or to pretend at normalcy.
Speaker 1: Mark's voice behind the door was muffled, trailing from a
Speaker 1: phone call, lo charming, the cadence he reserved for others,
Speaker 1: not for me. No, I'll swing by first. Yeah, I'll
Speaker 1: bring it, see you soon. My fingers tracked over the
Speaker 1: ridges of the quilt, mapping the terrain of a life
Speaker 1: neatly coming apart. When the door opened, he paused, as
Speaker 1: if sensing the air had shifted. He dropped his jim bag,
Speaker 1: let it thud heavily into the corner, and paused again. Hey,
Speaker 1: he said, attempting a smile. You eating dinner. I fixed
Speaker 1: my eyes on him, not hungry. He watched me for
Speaker 1: a moment, cautious, one hand curling and uncurling as though
Speaker 1: he might reach for me. Then changed his mind. Want
Speaker 1: to watch something I won't talk through your crime show,
Speaker 1: he offered, squinting as if the joke could smooth the
Speaker 1: grainy tension between us. I shook my head. We need
Speaker 1: to talk. The words tasted final. He exhaled, lips pressed
Speaker 1: into a flat line. O K, what's going on? I
Speaker 1: thought of every chance I'd given him to volunteer the truth,
Speaker 1: every small door held open, every question dodged, every kindness
Speaker 1: thrown back as an overy action. My hands knotted in
Speaker 1: my lap, but my resolve didn't waver. I know Mark,
Speaker 1: I said quietly about Kelsey, about the runs, the dinners,
Speaker 1: the hotel charges, all of it. I've seen the messages,
Speaker 1: even on your tablet, and the charm. You can stop pretending.
Speaker 1: He froze, eyes flicking from my face to the floor,
Speaker 1: then back, a brief, calculating flash before a slow, practiced
Speaker 1: shake of the head. What are you talking about? The
Speaker 1: wind spiked through the half open window, rattling the blinds.
Speaker 1: I barely noticed, don't, I whispered, don't say you do know?
Speaker 1: The long runs in suburbs, the receipts you left for her,
Speaker 1: the way you changed every password. Emma told me you
Speaker 1: leave races together. You lied about our anniversary to be
Speaker 1: with her. A flush blotched his cheeks. You've been what's
Speaker 1: spying on? Me. I was trying to find a reason
Speaker 1: not to believe what was right in front of me.
Speaker 1: He started pacing, then, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Speaker 1: You know how this looks. Do you have any idea
Speaker 1: what it's like for me? You're always buried in work
Speaker 1: or off with your friends. I found something for myself
Speaker 1: for once. Can't I just have that? I stared, stunned
Speaker 1: at the audacity, anger burning holes through my exhaustion. That
Speaker 1: is what this is. We always had space. You lied
Speaker 1: to me. You eraised me from your life, even with
Speaker 1: people who barely know you. You made me feel crazy.
Speaker 1: He stopped, his hand dragging through his hair. It's not
Speaker 1: like I wanted this to happen. I didn't go looking
Speaker 1: for it. Just she got it. Sam, No wa expectations.
Speaker 1: I could be whoever I needed At home. I'm always failing, late, tired,
Speaker 1: never doing enough. I rose from the bed, the anger
Speaker 1: steadying my footing. You cheated, Mark. You made all of
Speaker 1: this my life contingent on what you could get away with.
Speaker 1: Did you ever consider telling me the truth? Even once?
Speaker 1: He laughed, but it broke midway. What would I even say? Hey, Sam,
Speaker 1: I found some one who sees me. You wouldn't have understood.
Speaker 1: You'd have told me to grow up, get over myself,
Speaker 1: be a husband. His words cut deeper than the admissions themselves.
Speaker 1: I reached for the pile of receipts on my desk,
Speaker 1: holding them up one by one, proof gathered not out
Speaker 1: of vindictiveness but necessity. This is who you've become. Mark,
Speaker 1: the person I promised to love, would never have let
Speaker 1: it get this far without saying something. He sat down
Speaker 1: hard at the edge of the bed, head dropping into
Speaker 1: his hands. I screwed up. I know I did. For
Speaker 1: a moment, his shoulder shook. But we could work through this.
Speaker 1: Some people do. They go to counseling, figure out what broke,
Speaker 1: put it back together. A bitter bark of laughter escaped
Speaker 1: me before I could stop it. Mark, there's nothing left
Speaker 1: to fix. You didn't just cheat. You lied to me
Speaker 1: every day for months. Do you understand how alone you
Speaker 1: made me feel? He met my gaze, eyes roar and
Speaker 1: rimmed with red. I was alone too. We sat in silence,
Speaker 1: The meaning of that admission gaping between us, avoid wider
Speaker 1: than anything even the best therapist could bridge. The sharp
Speaker 1: edges of the confrontation dulled into exhaustion. My voice threatened
Speaker 1: to tremble, but I held it. Is it over with her?
Speaker 1: A pause? I don't know, he said, I don't know
Speaker 1: anything right now. The truth at last, not the pretty
Speaker 1: apologetic kind, but the kind that changes everything in the room,
Speaker 1: the kind that redraws the borders of what matters. I straightened,
Speaker 1: feeling weightless and rooted at once. I'm leaving, Mark. I need.
Speaker 1: I could hardly speak past the dryness in my throat.
Speaker 1: I need to not be here to night, maybe for good.
Speaker 1: He stood as if to block my way, then let
Speaker 1: his arms fall to his sides. Please, he said, voice cracking,
Speaker 1: Don't leave like this, Let's try. I shook my head.
Speaker 1: For once, the conversation's end was not a question I
Speaker 1: needed to ask. The apartment felt suddenly too small, too
Speaker 1: invested in the sound of its own history. I pulled
Speaker 1: a canvas tote from the closet, moving mechanically, a tooth brush,
Speaker 1: Jean's laptop, one change of shoes. I stuffed the receipts
Speaker 1: into the outside pocket, the tinny charm clinking dimly against
Speaker 1: my keys. Mark hovered in the doorway, elbows against the frame.
Speaker 1: He looked lost, smaller than I'd ever seen him, but
Speaker 1: I didn't mistake his regret for something fixable. You can
Speaker 1: tell people what you want, I said, quietly, But don't
Speaker 1: pretend this is about anything other than what you chose.
Speaker 1: He nodded, face crumpling, but made no move to stop me.
Speaker 1: I paused, running my hand along the dresser top, where
Speaker 1: the photo of us at the wedding sat facing the wall.
Speaker 1: I picked it up, pressed my thumb over our smiling
Speaker 1: faces for a long second, then set it face down,
Speaker 1: and walked out of the room. The hallway outside our
Speaker 1: front door was cooler, filled with the even hum of
Speaker 1: distant city traffic. It wasn't until I hit the stairs
Speaker 1: that my hands started to shake. I stepped out onto
Speaker 1: the sidewalk, phone in hand, texting Ivy before I let
Speaker 1: myself collapse onto a bench outside the building. Can I
Speaker 1: stay with you? My thumb hovered, then sent. The sky
Speaker 1: was already darkening. I watched lights flicker on in apartment
Speaker 1: windows across the street, people moving through their evenings, unaware
Speaker 1: of the spiral that had just played out three floors above.
Speaker 1: A minute later, Ivy called. I could barely manage speech,
Speaker 1: but she understood. Come over, she said, soft but resolute.
Speaker 1: I'll wait up. It was only a ten minute walk,
Speaker 1: bag thumping against my hip. Each step away from the
Speaker 1: apartment loosened something inside me, grief and terror and a faint,
Speaker 1: unfamiliar relief. Still, a new dread took shape behind my eyes.
Speaker 1: The logistics, the explanations, the friends and family I'd have
Speaker 1: to tell, the sheer effort it would take to Mark
Speaker 1: out after from before. At Ivy's I was greeted by
Speaker 1: her quiet embrace and an extra blanket heaped on the couch.
Speaker 1: She poured me a glass of water and asked no
Speaker 1: questions beyond do you want to talk or just sit?
Speaker 1: I shook my head mute and let her press play
Speaker 1: on an old sitcom background noise from a safer time.
Speaker 1: Messages from Mark began to stack up on my phone.
Speaker 1: The first few were brief, please talk to me, come home.
Speaker 1: Then I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry. Each one read
Speaker 1: and left unanswered. The urge to reply twisted up in
Speaker 1: anger and fatigue. I silenced my phone. In the early hours,
Speaker 1: Lying in the glow of Ivy's living room lamp, I
Speaker 1: scrolled through the running group's Instagram one last time. I
Speaker 1: deleted the app then the folder of saved photos, evidence,
Speaker 1: and reminders alike, watching their icons dissolve into digital dust.
Speaker 1: Sleep came in quick, broken intervals. When I woke just
Speaker 1: before dawn, the city outside Ivy's window felt both familiar
Speaker 1: and impossibly foreign. The urge to call my parents churned
Speaker 1: in my gut, but my resolve to keep the news
Speaker 1: to myself for now was stronger. This next conversation, like
Speaker 1: the one I just survived, would not allow for second
Speaker 1: chances or any way to make the damage unhappen. I
Speaker 1: moved through the quiet apartment on aching feet, poured Ivy's coffee,
Speaker 1: and stared down at the rings the mug left on
Speaker 1: her kitchen table. I tried to picture the shape of
Speaker 1: days without Mark, without the kind of partnership I'd worked
Speaker 1: so hard to believe could be repaired. Relief and pain
Speaker 1: kept shifting places inside me, each one refusing to declare
Speaker 1: itself the winner. Later that morning, Mark's messages came slower,
Speaker 1: changing in tone, some begging, some angry, most simply lost.
Speaker 1: I need you. I'll do anything, please, Sam. Then hours later,
Speaker 1: I understand if you need time. I swear I didn't
Speaker 1: mean to hurt you. I powered my phone off entirely,
Speaker 1: letting the quiet take over. I sat by Ivy's window
Speaker 1: with a cup of coffee gone cold. The weight of
Speaker 1: the receipts and charms still in my bag was strangely grounding,
Speaker 1: a reminder of what was real, what had been undeniable.
Speaker 1: In a moment of impulse, I took out the running shoe,
Speaker 1: tracing the outline of the laces with my thumb, and
Speaker 1: dropped it into Ivy's trash. I knew what had to
Speaker 1: come next. I knew what had to come next. Mid
Speaker 1: morning slid quietly into afternoon in Ivy's apartment. She left
Speaker 1: for a Saturday yoga class, checking once if I be okay,
Speaker 1: promising muffins later. And then the space was all mine,
Speaker 1: a blank sunlight traced living room and a city that
Speaker 1: kept moving outside despite the rupture in my own world.
Speaker 1: I curled my feet beneath me, humming with the kind
Speaker 1: of exhausted energy where you tell yourself to shower, to eat,
Speaker 1: to do anything, but find yourself sitting and staring, conscious
Speaker 1: only of breathing. There is no manual for how to
Speaker 1: exist after you've learned something irrevocable about the person you loved.
Speaker 1: I drifted room to room, cheap overnight bag dragged by
Speaker 1: the handle, phone face down on the kitchen counter. The
Speaker 1: thought of Mark alone or not alone in our apartment
Speaker 1: flashed again and again. Should I have fought? Should I
Speaker 1: have howled? Demanded details, pounded the walls for every slimy
Speaker 1: half truth, But there was no urge for drama. My
Speaker 1: heartbreak was surgical, not explosive. Every moment since the night
Speaker 1: before now seemed to play in two tenses at once,
Speaker 1: the past that couldn't be touched and the present, whose
Speaker 1: air I could barely breathe. I made myself pick over
Speaker 1: the evidence, as if order could be coaxed from pain.
Speaker 1: The envelope of coffee receipts, the screenshots I'd sent to
Speaker 1: my own email, their innocent shop logos, and the digital
Speaker 1: shadows of Mark's inside jokes. I re read his last message,
Speaker 1: Please Sam, I can come to Ivy's and talk. Just
Speaker 1: tell me you're safe. All the lines about safety missed
Speaker 1: the only question that mattered, safe from what? When the
Speaker 1: call was coming from inside my marriage. Around noon, a
Speaker 1: new wave of texts buzzed through Ivey's number again on
Speaker 1: the screen. She was worried. She admitted, because Mark had
Speaker 1: called her twice asking if she'd seen me, if I
Speaker 1: was okay, if he could stop by to talk, I replied,
Speaker 1: don't let him in, please, I just need space. She
Speaker 1: answered with a thumbs up and a tight little heart.
Speaker 1: The next hours unspooled in the odd hush of a
Speaker 1: city apartment on the edge of a nervous weekend. A
Speaker 1: neighbor somewhere slammed a cupboard. A dog barked down the hallway.
Speaker 1: I sipped cold coffee, wiped runny mascara I'd missed from
Speaker 1: the night before. Anger pushed briefly through the static at
Speaker 1: Mark at Kelsey, at the theater of friendship around us that,
Speaker 1: when tested, offered no clue, no rescue. By mid afternoon,
Speaker 1: the dread began to morph into a need for control.
Speaker 1: I couldn't sit eternally in borrowed sunlight, Some logistics asserted themselves,
Speaker 1: as if to insist on life's larger indifference. I made
Speaker 1: a list, unsteady but practical. Cancel to night's double date
Speaker 1: with Aleena and her partner, log into our shared calendar,
Speaker 1: and delete my name from next month's trivia night. Look
Speaker 1: up the process for adding a new lock code to
Speaker 1: the front door. Each task was a small, necessary betrayal
Speaker 1: of my own hope, but also a way of elbowing
Speaker 1: pass inertia. It was then, in the late slant of
Speaker 1: the sun, my phone rang a number I didn't immediately recognize.
Speaker 1: My jaw clenched reflexively. Part of me, despite everything, feared
Speaker 1: it might be Kelsey. But the voice was Emma's, quiet
Speaker 1: and uncertain. I hope it's not weird that I'm calling,
Speaker 1: she started, voice faint with nerves. Mark reached out, said
Speaker 1: he didn't know if you were okay. I didn't tell
Speaker 1: him anything, I promise. I just needed to say I'm
Speaker 1: sorry for everything, for what I didn't say. I sat
Speaker 1: down hard at the table, the sudden contact more destabilizing
Speaker 1: than I'd imagined. I tried to find words. What I
Speaker 1: managed was jagged, exhausted. Emma, it's not your fault. You
Speaker 1: didn't know me. Loyalty, not really. She hesitated, then pushed on,
Speaker 1: nobody knows the whole truth, maybe not even them. But
Speaker 1: if you need anything, really need, just ask. There was
Speaker 1: kindness there, undamaged by the sloppiness of adult to allegiances.
Speaker 1: I thanked her voice low and cracked, and we hung up,
Speaker 1: both awkwardly relieved. Once she was gone from the line,
Speaker 1: I realized my whole body had gone rigid, as if
Speaker 1: bracing against another impact. I tried, for the dozenth time
Speaker 1: to imagine what would happen if I walked back to
Speaker 1: the apartment. Whether I might catch Mark and Kelsey together. No,
Speaker 1: I was sure he'd be alone, but already building new alibis.
Speaker 1: Perhaps he would already have replaced my pillow with something
Speaker 1: that smelled like her perfume. At four fifteen, Ivy returned,
Speaker 1: soft footed and gentle, muffins in a paper bag and
Speaker 1: a look on her face that managed care without interrogation.
Speaker 1: She sat with me on the couch, said nothing for
Speaker 1: a long while, then placed her hand over mine. You
Speaker 1: don't have to go back for anything to night, she said,
Speaker 1: careful not to phrase it as an order, But even
Speaker 1: that simple consideration resurrected the practical voice in my head.
Speaker 1: What about my work laptop, my client files, my architectural
Speaker 1: models stashed under the bed at home. You don't get
Speaker 1: to burn down your own life in a day, no
Speaker 1: matter how much of you wants to. I told Ivy
Speaker 1: I needed to go back only briefly. She offered to
Speaker 1: walk with me, and I refused. Some things you have
Speaker 1: to face alone. The walk back to the apartment was
Speaker 1: the slowest kind of purgatory. Each block a memory, the
Speaker 1: Italian bakery where Mark and I bought last minute deserts,
Speaker 1: the stoop where we sat watching thunder storms. The glass
Speaker 1: front door, whose security code I still entered out of habit.
Speaker 1: My hands shook as I typed in the entry. Force
Speaker 1: of will overruled dread. Inside. The air was different, almost musty,
Speaker 1: thick as humid linen, Mark's shoes in their habitual jumble,
Speaker 1: a faint trace of his cologne hanging in the hallway.
Speaker 1: The quiet was immense, until suddenly it was Mark was
Speaker 1: in the kitchen. He turned as I entered. His face
Speaker 1: was pale, eyes swollen at the corner's hair unco omed.
Speaker 1: He was holding his phone, but let it fall to
Speaker 1: the counter with a clatter. Sam It was barely more
Speaker 1: than a vibration in the air. I took a breath
Speaker 1: that felt like breathing in ice. I came for my things,
Speaker 1: nothing else. He nodded once, as if he'd spent hours
Speaker 1: preparing for this. Please just let me say something. He
Speaker 1: looked smaller in the kitchen's sharp light, dangerously hopeful, desperately contained.
Speaker 1: I know it's too late for talking. I know the
Speaker 1: only person who can ask for forgiveness should have done
Speaker 1: it months ago, before anything started. I can't take any
Speaker 1: of it back. But I swear, Sam, it wasn't about her,
Speaker 1: not really. I stared at him, the surprise of pain
Speaker 1: sharper than i'd expected. You slept with her mark You
Speaker 1: lied to me, to every one. He shook his head, anguished,
Speaker 1: Yes I did. I can't explain how stupid it felt,
Speaker 1: how much I built it up like it would replace
Speaker 1: something that was missing. I wish I could say it
Speaker 1: meant nothing, but that wouldn't even be honest. She was there,
Speaker 1: and you were. He faltered, realized at last that nothing
Speaker 1: would sound right. I don't expect you to forgive me.
Speaker 1: I just needed you to hear that I miss you,
Speaker 1: even when you're in the next room. I messed up
Speaker 1: everything worth having. I wanted to offer cruel words to
Speaker 1: return the damage, but even anger felt thin, now, flimsy
Speaker 1: against the loss. You don't have the right to miss me.
Speaker 1: You made sure I was already gone. He opened his
Speaker 1: hands in a helpless gesture. There was nothing left for
Speaker 1: him to grasp. I went to our bedroom and filled
Speaker 1: my small suit case, folding clothing, packing a pair of
Speaker 1: work shoes, piling my folders of designs and old receipts
Speaker 1: into a canvas tote. I found myself shaking, not because
Speaker 1: of him, but from the physicality of leaving, like unplugging
Speaker 1: yourself from the last socket. Mark lingered near by, the
Speaker 1: sound of him pacing, trying not to be in my way.
Speaker 1: I would have preferred shouting some drawn out, shattering argument
Speaker 1: to brake the frozen air, but there was only the
Speaker 1: low chorus of ordinary chores, zippers, doors, steps across scuffed
Speaker 1: wooden floors. I set my wedding ring on the edge
Speaker 1: of his night stand, no ceremony, just the truth of
Speaker 1: what it meant. I heard more than sow the sound
Speaker 1: Mark made, then a sharp, muffled sob contained behind his
Speaker 1: fist at the door. I let my gaze rest on
Speaker 1: him as long as I could bear, a man unmade
Speaker 1: by his own secrets, stripped of every casual defense. For
Speaker 1: a breath, I recognized the old mark, my mark, in
Speaker 1: some deep shadow below the panic. Then he was gone,
Speaker 1: replaced by some one I could not reach or rescue.
Speaker 1: He took a step, half offering his hand, but stopped.
Speaker 1: If you ever want to talk about anything, please Sam.
Speaker 1: The words withered before they hit the air. I nodded mute,
Speaker 1: then turned the handle, pulled my suit case over the threshold,
Speaker 1: and walked out. The sky outside was the deep saturated gray,
Speaker 1: just before rain, the city's lights starting to pulse and
Speaker 1: flicker on in anticipation of the coming storm. I didn't
Speaker 1: look back through the tall windows as I crossed the street.
Speaker 1: I just let the suit case wheels rattle over the
Speaker 1: uneven sidewalk, each clatter of boundary. I didn't know I'd
Speaker 1: needed so much For a moment, I let myself stand
Speaker 1: under the building, awning, breathing in the smell of wet
Speaker 1: concrete and distant summer grass. I dialed Ivy, my voice
Speaker 1: even as I told her I'm on my way back now,
Speaker 1: thank you for being here. And with that last tether,
Speaker 1: the last practical weight of my old life slung at
Speaker 1: my hip, I stepped forward into the gathering dusk, letting
Speaker 1: the city's churn swallow up the name and story of
Speaker 1: Mark and me, leaving only what belonged to me alone,
Speaker 1: and the fragile quiet of streets opening beyond each frantic
Speaker 1: final good bu