Speaker 1: The oven's warmth escapes into the cold Denver night. As
Speaker 1: I pull the Lazagner out and realize I've set one
Speaker 1: too many places again. Our apartment above Larama Street glows
Speaker 1: all that buttery artificial yellow against a world going thick
Speaker 1: with January frost. The sculpture Marissa found at that estate
Speaker 1: sail sits where sunlight used to pool. The corners of
Speaker 1: our loft sharp in the quiet. I gather plates, absently
Speaker 1: checking my phone. She's still not home, no surprise, but
Speaker 1: I thought to night might be different Tuesday nights. Lately,
Speaker 1: she's always late. There's a text gallery crowd s running
Speaker 1: late again. Might be a wild sorry love sent forty
Speaker 1: two minutes ago, followed by a little paint palette emoji.
Speaker 1: I stir the sauce one more time, push my phone
Speaker 1: across the table and try not to let disappointments seep
Speaker 1: in like cold through the windows. I remind myself it's good.
Speaker 1: She's excited, passionate, She's found and energy in these volunteer
Speaker 1: gallery nights, the kind of energy I remember from when
Speaker 1: we met. Before days fell into routine and her sketch
Speaker 1: pads started gathering dust, and she complained about the way
Speaker 1: sunlight look the same every day. I eat half my
Speaker 1: meal alone, listening to simmering city street sounds below. Occasionally
Speaker 1: I hear a couple laugh, cars rumbling over the brickwork,
Speaker 1: the low hum of winter night life, people going places
Speaker 1: together after dishes clatter in the sink. I wipe my
Speaker 1: hands and drift to the couch, scrolling through Instagram stories
Speaker 1: out of boredom. My eyes drift, not really reading captions.
Speaker 1: When a familiar face stares back from a neon lit room,
Speaker 1: Lee's profel a looping video tagged Blue Note Jazz Bar.
Speaker 1: The camera pans Lee in the foreground, then swings wide
Speaker 1: to a little crowd at the bar, And there Marissa,
Speaker 1: perched on a stool, laughing, cocktail, glass in hand, her
Speaker 1: face half lit, a burst of green and gold. She
Speaker 1: never never told me she'd be at Blue Note to night.
Speaker 1: The second pass, my hand trembling. I freeze the video
Speaker 1: and look for who's beside her. The angle's tricky, just
Speaker 1: a shoulder, something olive colored, may be a man's jacket.
Speaker 1: But the time stamp reads eight thirty four p m,
Speaker 1: exactly the time she texted to say the gallery opening
Speaker 1: was still happening downtown. Blue Note isn't anywhere close. It's
Speaker 1: tucked into five points, not even in walking range from
Speaker 1: the gallery she's supposed to be at to night. I
Speaker 1: sit back, pulse ringing hard in my ears. My first
Speaker 1: instinct is to laugh. It's probably nothing. Maybe the team
Speaker 1: from the gallery wrapped up early, dropped by for a drink.
Speaker 1: Marissa hates missing out. She loves jazz. I nearly tap
Speaker 1: out a quick message, blue Note to night looks fun.
Speaker 1: Then I pause. Wouldn't she have told me? I study
Speaker 1: the video again. She's vibrant, hair tumbling from her clip,
Speaker 1: face luminous in the bar's warped blue light. I feel
Speaker 1: a strange resentment that she's having a better night than
Speaker 1: the one planned. When Marissa finally comes home, the front
Speaker 1: door blows open with a whirl of cold and perfume,
Speaker 1: her new one sharp and unfamiliar. She's almost humming as
Speaker 1: she shakes out her hair, cheeks pink, clutching her coat
Speaker 1: and some gallery mailers wild night. I tried to sound casual,
Speaker 1: just this side of joking, she grins, tossing her bag
Speaker 1: to the sofa. You wouldn't believe the drama. One of
Speaker 1: the sculptors trashed his own piece after the board criticized it.
Speaker 1: I'm exhausted, but it was good for the gallery's Instagram
Speaker 1: at least. She flits around, peeling off layers, avoiding my gaze.
Speaker 1: Her fingers linger on her phone, thumbing the screen, quickly
Speaker 1: pocketing it. I want to ask, why didn't you tell
Speaker 1: me about blue note? Who was there with you? But
Speaker 1: instead I offer you eat. My voice sounds deliberately neutral.
Speaker 1: She shakes her head, says she grabbed something at the
Speaker 1: gallery potluck. Her stories are bright, mannic, nearly breathless names.
Speaker 1: I only half recked someone's amazing stencil work, a quote
Speaker 1: from the director. She never mentions the jazz bar. I
Speaker 1: let her talk, nodding when I'm supposed to, feeling the
Speaker 1: divide settle between us, like dust on old paintings. When
Speaker 1: she changes into sweats and slips into bed with a book,
Speaker 1: I stare at the ceiling, listening to winter traffic, feeling
Speaker 1: a line inside me pulled taut. I don't know exactly
Speaker 1: what shifted to night, but something did, the beginnings of
Speaker 1: a frayed edge. I can't stop picking. It's easier to
Speaker 1: remember the past before it started unraveling, so I let
Speaker 1: myself drift there. Eight years ago. I wasn't someone who
Speaker 1: stared at the clock or watched for clues. In my
Speaker 1: wife's words, I was a teacher, a little adrift, hunting
Speaker 1: for inspiration at art co op shows when I could
Speaker 1: still taste optimism. The night I met Marissa, she wore
Speaker 1: silver hoop earrings paint on her finger tips. She debated
Speaker 1: with a stranger about Rothkoe until the gallery owner begged
Speaker 1: for mercy, laughing off the attention. Her tone and gestures
Speaker 1: were attracting. When we locked eyes. It was instant recognition, kindred,
Speaker 1: I'd thought later, though admitting it out loud would make
Speaker 1: me sound naive. We talked about color and silence in paintings,
Speaker 1: swapping stories about what we'd make if time was infinite.
Speaker 1: I tried to impress her with the one time I
Speaker 1: sold a water color at a charity auction. She barely noticed,
Speaker 1: instead quizzing me about what drove me to teach. She
Speaker 1: hated the idea of settling, not in people, not in art,
Speaker 1: that anti complacency. Her urge to seek novelty made her
Speaker 1: magnetic but sometimes hard to hold. Three months later, we
Speaker 1: moved in together above an old bakery on Grant Street.
Speaker 1: Every wall became a canvas, sketches, half finished pieces, notes
Speaker 1: scrawled on butcher paper. She'd worked late into the night
Speaker 1: with her laptop glowing Spotify, feeding her a steady diet
Speaker 1: of lo fi and late nineties hip hop. I'd grade papers,
Speaker 1: trying to believe my student stick figure horses really looked
Speaker 1: like horses. Our friends called us almost telepathic. At parties,
Speaker 1: we could finish a sentence, predict each other's critique without fighting.
Speaker 1: Sunday mornings, we'd sprawl in bed, reading and sketching side
Speaker 1: by side, toes tangled under the duvet. For years, it
Speaker 1: felt like the world was just us and our ideas.
Speaker 1: But things shifted over time. Marissa took more freelance gigs
Speaker 1: than she could handle, clients from bigger and bigger agencies.
Speaker 1: The rare magazines spread. I swapped grades for lesson plans,
Speaker 1: the work both endlessly needed and barely paid. We promised
Speaker 1: each other independence. She claimed the sunniest corner of the
Speaker 1: loft for her desk. I'd set up a studio in
Speaker 1: the den. For a while, it worked. We understood each
Speaker 1: other's silences and small irritations. Sometimes her determination to seek
Speaker 1: the next thing provoked jokes. She accused me of loving routines.
Speaker 1: I teased her for being addicted to first drafts and
Speaker 1: unfinished plans. Underneath it all fit fire, then comfort. Our
Speaker 1: families kept their distance. My parents retired in a speck
Speaker 1: of a town east of Grand Junction, more at home
Speaker 1: in fields than galleries, too proud to admit they missed me,
Speaker 1: They called, but never visited. Marisa's mother, sharp as attack
Speaker 1: and critical in ways. Marissa recented flew in from California
Speaker 1: for Christmas or the occasional birthday, dropping pointed comments about
Speaker 1: getting serious, which meant something neither of us really understood.
Speaker 1: The fifth year, the cracks showed Marissa had cycles of
Speaker 1: restless ambition, big projects, months of introspection, distracting herself with
Speaker 1: new skills. I'd retreat to the steady rhythm of school,
Speaker 1: football games, potlucks. Our shared accounts stretched thin. Her work
Speaker 1: was sporadic, mine barely enough for city rent. Sex, once
Speaker 1: impulsive group of functory, then faded beneath a mounting fatigue.
Speaker 1: We treated with sarcasm or silence, But still we were
Speaker 1: each other's per if imperfect at least known. I try
Speaker 1: to remember those years as the anchor, the contexts that
Speaker 1: made me want to defend us, not doubt her. Maybe
Speaker 1: that's why when Marissa started recounting her new gallery volunteer
Speaker 1: gig with the same nervous excitement she used to have
Speaker 1: about life changing commissions, I felt both relieved and afraid.
Speaker 1: It started innocently. A former client needed someone to help
Speaker 1: coordinate with the local galleries archives just until they finished
Speaker 1: a renovation. Marissa threw herself in meetings, event nights, social
Speaker 1: posts scheduled at odd hours. Suddenly I'd hear about Carmine,
Speaker 1: the ferocious printmaker, or Sylvia who should have had a
Speaker 1: Guggenheim years ago. She recounted conversations about vision and legacy,
Speaker 1: as if rediscovering the part of herself that had gotten
Speaker 1: lost in billing software and admin emails. At first, her
Speaker 1: energy renewed us. She put her phone away at dinner,
Speaker 1: poored her swine, drew me half in to stories about
Speaker 1: small gallery politics, some of them funny, some exhausting. But
Speaker 1: over a few weeks small changes set my nerves jangling.
Speaker 1: She was more fidgety, checking her phone during meals, silencing notifications,
Speaker 1: fast enough to suggest something she didn't want me to see,
Speaker 1: not at all, like before, when she barely cared about privacy.
Speaker 1: One Sunday, we were folding laundry on the bed, just
Speaker 1: floating from the record player. Her phone chimed a message
Speaker 1: preview from Jay flicked onto the lock screen, but she
Speaker 1: swept it away so quickly I thought maybe I'd imagined it.
Speaker 1: Instead of leaving her phone on the bed like usual,
Speaker 1: she carried it with her, even to the bathroom. A
Speaker 1: new password showed up. When I joked about not knowing it,
Speaker 1: she shrugged, said something vague, just freelance security stuff. Agency
Speaker 1: clients want it now, can you believe it? Dinner out
Speaker 1: became Minefield's small talk over Ramen, conversations that felt edited.
Speaker 1: I'd ask who was on a volunteer team what the
Speaker 1: pla land for the next opening was, and she'd list
Speaker 1: names so fast I couldn't keep track. Sometimes she'd contradict herself.
Speaker 1: Carmen's doing Princes next quarter, She's leading the new show. Later, No,
Speaker 1: Carmen's taking a break. Burnt out. I tried to brush
Speaker 1: it off. She'd always had a little chaotic streak, especially
Speaker 1: when she was passionate, but looseness had shifted to secrecy
Speaker 1: after one awkward tangle, her answering wrong group chat, never
Speaker 1: mind to a notification. I tried to tell myself she
Speaker 1: was just busy, maybe stressed. I almost believed it until
Speaker 1: the morning she left for a gallery planning breakfast in
Speaker 1: dressier clothes than her usual make up, sharper perfume, bolder
Speaker 1: earrings I'd never seen before. I teased her. She grinned,
Speaker 1: but there was a flicker behind her eyes. I couldn't
Speaker 1: locate awariness. That was the point I stopped trusting my interpretation.
Speaker 1: I ran scenarios in my head for days. Was she
Speaker 1: simply thriving, blooming in the creative air she'd been missing?
Speaker 1: Was I reading into nothing? Or was I just jealous
Speaker 1: that her life was becoming larger without me in the picture.
Speaker 1: She brought home little gifts that weak my favorite coffee beans,
Speaker 1: a box set of Japanese water colors. Saw these and
Speaker 1: thought of you, she said, voice, soft, smile, quick, like
Speaker 1: an apology in a different language. Sometimes a bottle of pino,
Speaker 1: fancy cheese take out from a place I'd never heard of.
Speaker 1: I wanted to appreciate it, but something about the timing
Speaker 1: her coming home late with treats felt like an old trick,
Speaker 1: gilt covered in kindness. I tried to check my own impulses.
Speaker 1: Was I secretly resentful that her world was opening? Maybe
Speaker 1: I was just bored threatened by change. The crescendo of
Speaker 1: suspicion and self doubt reached its peak on a sunny Saturday,
Speaker 1: as I pulled open her laptop to borrow the charger
Speaker 1: and caught a browser with zero history. I'm not the
Speaker 1: type to snoop. Still it stood out Marissa was a
Speaker 1: digital clutterbug, never cleared tabs, a graveyard of Google searches
Speaker 1: and untitled pdf. This wipe slate felt deliberate. When I
Speaker 1: suggested we hit the next gallery opening together, the one
Speaker 1: she'd been raving about. Her reaction was immediate discomfort. She spun,
Speaker 1: nearly dropping a stack of mail. No, no, I mean
Speaker 1: it's mostly internal members only kinder political right now. I
Speaker 1: wouldn't know how to explain it. Honestly, it's boring. You'd
Speaker 1: hate it. I stared at her, blinking, even after all
Speaker 1: your talk. She shrugged away the question, pretending to concentrate
Speaker 1: on a stubborn corner of packing tape between silences. I
Speaker 1: tried reconnecting with my own world, catching drinks after work,
Speaker 1: inviting Victor and Lee over for game night, but even
Speaker 1: hanging out with friends felt odd. People were distracted, too polite.
Speaker 1: At brunch, Lee almost mentioned the jazz bar. Oh you know,
Speaker 1: I ran into marissarat She stopped as Marisa walked in,
Speaker 1: changed the subject swiftly to the city's terrible parking. Later,
Speaker 1: when we were alone, I asked, you said you saw
Speaker 1: Marissa out the other night. Lee hesitated, then shook her head.
Speaker 1: Oh maybe I mixed up days. Sorry, I'm so scattered.
Speaker 1: Her voice was clipped, almost guilty. One afternoon, on a
Speaker 1: grocery run, because I needed an excuse to get out
Speaker 1: and clear my head, I found myself flipping through our
Speaker 1: joint credit card mobile app. I justified it to myself,
Speaker 1: she's been busy, We're tight on cash. Better to plan,
Speaker 1: but the transactions caught my eye. Late night charges at
Speaker 1: trendy spots, blue note Ember, some tapass bar called Fialter,
Speaker 1: places with no obvious connection to the gallery or volunteer events.
Speaker 1: None of it matched the story she was telling. The
Speaker 1: following week end, Marissa took a work trip to Bolder
Speaker 1: overnight strategy session with the Gallery team. She insisted excitement
Speaker 1: painting her cheeks pink. But that same weekend, while scrolling Instagram,
Speaker 1: I saw the Gallery direct a post a story tagged
Speaker 1: at a local Denver festival. Comment after common from Marissa's
Speaker 1: supposed team mates, I searched for evidence, eventually landing on
Speaker 1: a group photo every one there except Marissa. Back at home,
Speaker 1: the space between us stretched wider. Marissa came home tired, grumpy,
Speaker 1: avoiding touch pillow talk once easy felt forced. She started
Speaker 1: falling asleep, clutching her phone, muttering about Migren's just too
Speaker 1: worn out. I missed her laugh. I missed the evening light,
Speaker 1: when we'd sit together with no plans, sharing sketches, or
Speaker 1: just listening to the city. I wondered how much more
Speaker 1: of this I could excuse. I was restless at school,
Speaker 1: grading suffered, my students even noticed. Victor, sensing my distraction,
Speaker 1: lured me out for beers on a Wednesday. As we
Speaker 1: sank into a sticky booth old altrock on the jukebox,
Speaker 1: I spilled a little of the story, nothing too raw,
Speaker 1: just the outlines. She's working late, I said, tracing a
Speaker 1: ring in condensation new crowd, lots going on. I don't
Speaker 1: know if I trusted, but I don't want to be
Speaker 1: that guy. Victor, Ever, the pragmatist, offered his take, maybe
Speaker 1: she's overwhelmed. Lot of creative people need space when things
Speaker 1: get big. Doesn't mean she's cheating, man. I wanted to
Speaker 1: believe him, even as the words rang hollow. That night,
Speaker 1: determined to trust, I bought Marissa flowers and splurged on
Speaker 1: ingredients for a dinner she'd always loved, home made Nyoki, Saltimboka,
Speaker 1: the works. I set the table with candles, music, new
Speaker 1: plates from the little ceramics shop she adored. When she arrived,
Speaker 1: the exhaustion I'd seen lately was replaced with what seemed
Speaker 1: like genuine warmth. She slipped into the kitchen, arms encircling me,
Speaker 1: laughter flickering back over dinner, she apologized, said she'd been distant, stressed,
Speaker 1: trying to keep too many plates spinning. She promised she
Speaker 1: missed us. The night got better, the tension loosened for
Speaker 1: the first time in weeks. We made love, hesitant at first,
Speaker 1: then reverent, rediscovering the landscape we'd neglected. Afterward, I felt lighter, hopeful,
Speaker 1: may be a little foolish for doubting. She fell asleep
Speaker 1: on my chest, limbs flung wide, and for a short
Speaker 1: while I believed we'd righted the ship, but hope curdled
Speaker 1: to dread. When my phone buzzed at midnight a text
Speaker 1: from Lee, terse and choppy Nate, did you know Marissa
Speaker 1: was a blue note again? To night saw her leaving
Speaker 1: with a guy in a green jacket. My stomach flipped
Speaker 1: in the darkness. Marisa's breath was gentle, peaceful. I couldn't sleep.
Speaker 1: A hundred versions of the night played on loop. I
Speaker 1: woke before her and watched the light creep past the shades.
Speaker 1: I wanted to believe Lee was mistaken, but the details
Speaker 1: again blue note again secrecy were impossible to ignore. The
Speaker 1: following days, I told myself I needed clarity, no more
Speaker 1: gaslighting myself into believing implausible stories. I started small, tracking
Speaker 1: what I could in ways that felt both demeaning and necessary.
Speaker 1: I appt her supposed gallery events on a calendar, compared
Speaker 1: them to Instagram postings, gallery newsletters, online schedules. I cross
Speaker 1: checked any reference she made to nights out. The discrepancies
Speaker 1: piled higher. She claim a board meeting, but the galleryes
Speaker 1: socials showed it had taken place the previous evening. Volunteer
Speaker 1: training listed, but all open invitation. Nowhere did Marisa's name
Speaker 1: show up, not as a coordinator, not even in photo tags.
Speaker 1: I tried pressing Lee this time, face to face at
Speaker 1: the park. Lee wouldn't meet my eyes. The way she
Speaker 1: bit her lip let me know she held more than
Speaker 1: she was saying. Lee, I have to ask, has Marisa
Speaker 1: been different with you? A moment's hesitation then, Nate. I
Speaker 1: don't want to get between you two, but yeah, I've
Speaker 1: seen her at Blue Note more than once. With that
Speaker 1: guy Julian. He's new on the scene, local artist dreadlocks,
Speaker 1: wears a green army jacket in any weather. They seemed close.
Speaker 1: She did introduced me when I ran into them. It
Speaker 1: felt weird. That name Julian lodged in my throat. I'd
Speaker 1: heard her mention him briefly over dinner a month ago.
Speaker 1: Julian's a whirlwind, She'd said, with an odd reverence. Drives
Speaker 1: Calmer nuts, but makes me laugh. I tried to match
Speaker 1: what I'd been told about the volunteer roll with what
Speaker 1: Lee just confirmed. How long has it been going on?
Speaker 1: I asked, the question tugged out of me. Desperate, Lee winced,
Speaker 1: I honestly don't know Nate. Whenever I saw them, it
Speaker 1: looked friendly, but not like co workers. Sorry, maybe it's nothing.
Speaker 1: She touched my arm, eyes soft with pity. I really
Speaker 1: hope I'm wrong. Back home, guilt burned my insides. Was
Speaker 1: I prying, invading privacy? Or was I a fool for
Speaker 1: ignoring what was becoming obvious to every one else? The
Speaker 1: next Friday, unable to rest, I drove across town, parking
Speaker 1: near Blue Note as the city lights flickered against gritty
Speaker 1: brick facades. I sat in my car, engine off palms, sweating,
Speaker 1: heart thumping low in my stomach. At eight fifty two,
Speaker 1: I spotted Marissa through the smoke fogged window, a silhouette
Speaker 1: at a high top, close beside a tall Bohemian mess
Speaker 1: of a man in a battered army jacket, Julian. Presumably
Speaker 1: they talked close, her hand on his arm, bodies angled inward,
Speaker 1: oblivious to the world outside. He made her laugh, full bodied, joyous,
Speaker 1: the way I remembered from years ago. I wanted to
Speaker 1: storm inside, but something froze me. I felt displaced, like
Speaker 1: an intruder outside my own life. When they stood to leave,
Speaker 1: I ducked lower out of habit, watching her clutch her bag,
Speaker 1: Julian's arms sliding briefly around her waist, then melting away
Speaker 1: into the night. The sight hollowed me, more intimate than
Speaker 1: anything she'd shared with me in months. Driving home, anger
Speaker 1: and hurt merged into numbness. I considered waking Marisa to
Speaker 1: demand answers, but the part of me that still Bill
Speaker 1: loved her, still wanted there to be a mistake held back.
Speaker 1: In the following days, evidence surfaced everywhere. I caught glimpses
Speaker 1: in the corners of our shared life. Her sketch pad
Speaker 1: now full of rough, abstract portraits of a man with
Speaker 1: angular features and forest colored clothes, new playlists peppered with
Speaker 1: obscure jazz pieces. She started treating our home like a
Speaker 1: stopping off point, a place to shower, change, collect new
Speaker 1: stories for me to accept at face value. Her email
Speaker 1: dinged one afternoon as I passed her laptop on the
Speaker 1: dining table. I didn't mean to intrude, but a notification
Speaker 1: popped up when she hadn't logged out of a message
Speaker 1: from Jay Ramsay, subject line no going back now, A
Speaker 1: spicy bantering back and forth flashed in the preview snatches
Speaker 1: of future plans our show will kill at constellation, can't
Speaker 1: believe we get to do this together. Finally, I gazed
Speaker 1: at it until the screen locked, heat burning my ears.
Speaker 1: That night, before Marissa was due home, I sat on
Speaker 1: our bed, clutching the sketch books she given me three
Speaker 1: anniversaries earlier, a battered, soft edged thing, pages filled with
Speaker 1: the first notes of our shared dreams. I tried tracing
Speaker 1: were we gone wrong? What nuance of color or commitment
Speaker 1: had faded? Until all that was left was camouflage. I
Speaker 1: pictured Marissa and Julian not just stealing moments, but plotting, colluding,
Speaker 1: building a whole gallery show, a whole new life, with
Speaker 1: me as the unwitting back up plan. For the first time,
Speaker 1: the possibility that she wasn't just betraying our marriage but
Speaker 1: rewriting it, painting a whole new existence in lines I
Speaker 1: could never enter became realer than my old denials. My
Speaker 1: mind flashed back to all the time she'd said she
Speaker 1: was finding herself, the coded remarks about being tired of
Speaker 1: functional love. Did she plan to just walk out? Or
Speaker 1: was she still hoping to maintain both worlds, one foot
Speaker 1: in safety, another in freedom. I left that night, unable
Speaker 1: to stomach the air in our apartment, taking nothing but
Speaker 1: a Duffel and the keys to Victor's spare room. As
Speaker 1: I walked through the city toward his building, slush crunching
Speaker 1: under foot, I tried not to spin out into self
Speaker 1: pity or rage. I wanted the confusion more than the certainty,
Speaker 1: anything to delay collapse. The next day, Marisa texted, where'd
Speaker 1: you go last night? Everything okay? Can we talk later?
Speaker 1: Her tone was breezy, as if she knew nothing, as
Speaker 1: if I might accept yet another vague apology and a
Speaker 1: box of my favorite scones. I ignored her, letting the
Speaker 1: hours stack up, building a wall of silence neither of
Speaker 1: us could climb easily. By late evening, the deluge of
Speaker 1: messages slowed. Victor poured bourbon, and we sat without words,
Speaker 1: watching the city light's pulse. Are you going to confront her?
Speaker 1: He finally asked, Not yet, I said, voice rough. I
Speaker 1: need to see how deep this goes. I didn't trust
Speaker 1: myself not to explode. I wanted answers, but not if
Speaker 1: it meant letting her smooth o the truth with tears
Speaker 1: and clever excuses. Sleep came in fits. Every time I
Speaker 1: closed my eyes, I saw Marissa and Julian at blue Note,
Speaker 1: captured not on Lee's Instagram, but in the vulnerable corner
Speaker 1: of my own memory, her unhindered laugh, his hand on
Speaker 1: her back, the promise of escape for them both. Each
Speaker 1: time I tried to rationalize, the weight of proof forced
Speaker 1: me back to the cold edge of fact. Our lines,
Speaker 1: once running parallel, had crossed and now split. In the morning,
Speaker 1: I scoured our finances for more clues. Eber rides to
Speaker 1: unfamiliar addresses, cash withdrawals at odd hours, double charges for
Speaker 1: team breakfasts that never matched any of her stories. I
Speaker 1: searched online for Julian, his art, his back story. He
Speaker 1: was everywhere on Denver's creative Scene Murals gallery features interviews
Speaker 1: where he described his work as collaborative alchemy. The posted
Speaker 1: photos sometimes included Marissa in the background, her smile never
Speaker 1: quite meant for the camera. I message Lee again, asking
Speaker 1: you said you saw them together. How long has this been?
Speaker 1: Lee took a long time to reply. Her answer was careful,
Speaker 1: since at least December, maybe longer. Nate, Sorry, I opened
Speaker 1: Marisa's old sketch books. Flicking through, I caught odd snap shots,
Speaker 1: mentions of new beginnings, lists in her handwriting. Spend more
Speaker 1: time creating, pursue joy, take risks. On a back page,
Speaker 1: a phrase caught me. Risk is the color between us.
Speaker 1: I snapped the book shut. The cold reality of our
Speaker 1: drift and a search for something beyond me became uncomfortably vivid.
Speaker 1: I wanted to scream or call her, and say every
Speaker 1: ugly thing in my head. Instead, I forced myself to
Speaker 1: go to work, moving through the motions of teaching, talking
Speaker 1: about chromatic scales to eighth graders who cared far less
Speaker 1: about color than I did about survival. I handed out
Speaker 1: assignments I barely remembered, prepping, all the while glancing at
Speaker 1: the clock, counting down the hours until I could go
Speaker 1: back to being a detective in my own life. Marisa texted, called,
Speaker 1: even left a voicemail, her voice caught between concern and fatigue.
Speaker 1: Let's talk please. I played the message twice, picking at
Speaker 1: her tone, analyzing the hesitation. I pictured her in someone
Speaker 1: else's arms, her laugh as splinter her secrets, multiplying. Late
Speaker 1: one night, Victor knocked and handed me a bourbon, then
Speaker 1: sat quietly beside me. Silence stretched until I blurted, what
Speaker 1: if it's not cheating, What if there's some money thing,
Speaker 1: or she's sick or I was grasping for anything to
Speaker 1: make the betrayal smaller, more comprehensible, less personal. I think
Speaker 1: you know, Victor said I did, But knowing and facing
Speaker 1: two totally different things. Not long after, I saw on
Speaker 1: Instagram that the gallery Marisa's supposed second home was closed
Speaker 1: for renovations for the next two weeks. Still, she left
Speaker 1: each night around six, claiming long staff meetings, coordination calls,
Speaker 1: private hangouts for the board, no mention of Julian, never
Speaker 1: any evidence to suggest she was actually working on any
Speaker 1: project I could see. I began to dread coming home,
Speaker 1: the shape of her absence as stain on every evening
Speaker 1: even our fights lost their heat once after another too
Speaker 1: late return. I tried to ask, is there something you
Speaker 1: need to tell me? She flinched, then masked it, dodged
Speaker 1: with a tired nothing to say, honestly, just wiped from
Speaker 1: work stuff. I wish you deed trust me a little more.
Speaker 1: I could hear the plea in her voice underneath. I
Speaker 1: think she still wanted safety from the truth, from herself,
Speaker 1: from me seeing whatever it was she was building outside
Speaker 1: our sight lines. And I was tired. God, I was
Speaker 1: tired of trying to pase which lies I could believe
Speaker 1: and which ones would finally end us. So I resolved
Speaker 1: to wait, to watch, to gather enough answers. No story
Speaker 1: could unweave if I was going to lose the person
Speaker 1: I thought I knew at the very least, I wanted
Speaker 1: to witness the full picture, the true color between us,
Speaker 1: before the brush finally left the canvas. The weight of
Speaker 1: proof pressed on me all the more when I came
Speaker 1: home Thursday to the sight of Marissa engrossed in her computer,
Speaker 1: headphones on, eyes darting across her screen. She didn't even
Speaker 1: notice I had walked in until I dropped my bag
Speaker 1: by the coat rack. I watched the way she startled,
Speaker 1: quickly minimizing her browser window and tugging off one ear
Speaker 1: cup with a practiced distracted smile. You're early, she said,
Speaker 1: glancing at the tiny clock in the corner of her monitor.
Speaker 1: Everything all right at school, I shrugged. Professional development ran short,
Speaker 1: I brought tie, I emptied cartons onto plates, watching her
Speaker 1: move with coiled energy, pacing the kitchen, barefoot, pads of
Speaker 1: her toes turning pink against the chilly floor. She wouldn't
Speaker 1: meet my eyes. Instead, she flicked her attention from me
Speaker 1: to the task of pouring seltzer into long glasses and
Speaker 1: my her gesture of hospitality that now felt almost foreign.
Speaker 1: She perched on the stool across from me and poked
Speaker 1: at her noodle's You seem tense, she ventured, eyes falling
Speaker 1: to her food. Tough class. The eighth graders rebelled, I offered,
Speaker 1: forcing a small laugh mutiny over a pop quiz, I paused,
Speaker 1: how was your day? She recited something about design edits
Speaker 1: a client who couldn't choose a vector style. Through it all,
Speaker 1: her phone flashed beside her plate, low angled notifications in apse.
Speaker 1: I didn't recognize, names like Bryce and Arlowe, popping up
Speaker 1: too quickly for me to process. I pretended they meant nothing,
Speaker 1: but the shorthand in her replies fast, almost secret code
Speaker 1: stuck in my mind. You're busy lately, I observed leverly,
Speaker 1: after a silence. It's like your coordinating an army. Marisa grinned,
Speaker 1: but something flickered behind it, something too fast for comfort.
Speaker 1: You know how it goes. Creative people don't do off hours.
Speaker 1: Everything's an emergency. She twisted her fork, noodles spooling, and
Speaker 1: the galleries chaos, and the only one under forty who
Speaker 1: understands canva. She laughed, but her hand roamed instinctively to
Speaker 1: cover her phone, as if I might actually reach for it.
Speaker 1: Understanding pooled uneasily between us, a tacit game of keep away.
Speaker 1: We let the conversation drift to the surface, both too
Speaker 1: cautious to break it open. She peppered me with questions
Speaker 1: about my day, her focus slightly exaggerated, just a little
Speaker 1: too keen, as if she was trying to cast a
Speaker 1: bright light over a decade's worth of affectionate habit. For
Speaker 1: a moment, it almost worked, Yet every time I saw
Speaker 1: her glance at her phone, her nervous energy hummed like
Speaker 1: neon in my chest. Later that night, I stood by
Speaker 1: the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth, watching Marissa as she
Speaker 1: clipped her hair back, dabbing at her eyes, all businesslike.
Speaker 1: She leaned in, kissed my cheek, and for a moment
Speaker 1: I caught a strange, furtive sadness in her eyes as
Speaker 1: she lingered, her fingers, squeezing my arm just a bit
Speaker 1: too tightly. She disappeared into the dark, with her phone
Speaker 1: glowing in her palm, leaving me alone with my foamy,
Speaker 1: bitter tasting mouth. I replayed the night's interactions, wondering if
Speaker 1: I was manufacturing distance on my own. I didn't know
Speaker 1: how to ask her for the real shape of her days,
Speaker 1: afraid she would snap or retreat further. It was easier
Speaker 1: to keep my posture easy and my voice light, easier
Speaker 1: for both of us to pretend. But easy never lasted.
Speaker 1: Friday morning, when I brewed coffee before school, I found
Speaker 1: the carefully arranged stack of gallery fliers on the kitchen
Speaker 1: island new designs rough proofs, each bearing the logo for
Speaker 1: Constellation Collective. Marissa mumbled in passing mock ups for a
Speaker 1: new show. Julian's helping with promos. She said his name
Speaker 1: so quickly, as if testing whether I'd object. Julian from
Speaker 1: Blue Note, I asked, as gently as possible. She blinked,
Speaker 1: then forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Yeah,
Speaker 1: the same. He does collage and big text installations. He's
Speaker 1: ah persistent. I let the conversation drop, but the unease
Speaker 1: wedged deeper. The week end loomed, storm snow in the forecast,
Speaker 1: so I made plans to stay in grade, do laundry,
Speaker 1: maybe watch a movie. Marisa claimed she'd be out both
Speaker 1: Friday and Saturday late, set up for the big preview.
Speaker 1: I hovered in our living room as she pulled on
Speaker 1: a sleek black jacket, jean's artfully torn at the knees,
Speaker 1: and boots. I rarely saw her wear. She checked herself
Speaker 1: in the little cracked mirror by the door. Don't wait up, Oka,
Speaker 1: she called, Do you want me to come by drop
Speaker 1: off coffee, see the new work. Her answer was a
Speaker 1: quick shake of the head. It's not that kind of thing.
Speaker 1: More behind the scenes. I'll be dead on my feet
Speaker 1: by midnight. You're sure, I promise it's going to be boring.
Speaker 1: The lie was barely disguised. She spun her ring once
Speaker 1: around her finger, then shot me a fragile, apologetic smile.
Speaker 1: I'll see you tomorrow, babe, love you. The door closed,
Speaker 1: muffling her words, her voice already too far away. I
Speaker 1: spent the evening pacing, fighting the urge to call. At
Speaker 1: ten thirty, I tapped open her Instagram, looking for photos,
Speaker 1: check ins, evidence nothing. Her stories were vague, stock images
Speaker 1: of colour palettes, reposted memes about artist's block and the
Speaker 1: beauty of process. At eleven forty three, a flurry of
Speaker 1: notifications arrived, this time not from Marissa, but from Victor.
Speaker 1: You up last minute beer, I texted back, not tonight.
Speaker 1: I left the apartment dark and traced my fingers over
Speaker 1: the rough edges of our wedding photo, half hidden beneath
Speaker 1: a week's worth of unopened mail. I ached for any
Speaker 1: small gesture from her, proof of ordinary affection, a reason
Speaker 1: to unclench. Morning brought little comfort. Marissa crept in just
Speaker 1: before dawn, quiet, careful, eyes rimmed red but sharp, as
Speaker 1: if keyed up rather than tired. She smelled of rain
Speaker 1: city stone, a muskier cologne that wasn't her own. When
Speaker 1: she slid into bed beside me, I pretended to still
Speaker 1: be asleep, feeling her trace the edge of my arm,
Speaker 1: then pulled the covers over her face. I waited, listening
Speaker 1: to the rise and fall of her breathing. Was this
Speaker 1: regret relief or just routine? The circadian rhythms of some
Speaker 1: one who'd learned how to live? Two lives in parallel.
Speaker 1: The next day's blurred. At school, I forced myself to focus,
Speaker 1: to care, to be steady for my students. I tried
Speaker 1: deep breaths, old teacher meditation tricks, but the color wheel
Speaker 1: on the white board seemed a joke. I drew concentric
Speaker 1: rings labeled shades of red and blue, all while reliving
Speaker 1: glances and gestures Marissa's and Julians. Every small disconnecttion became
Speaker 1: a sign every silence and accusation. Sunday evening, as sleep
Speaker 1: tapped the skylights, Marissa invited herself onto the couch while
Speaker 1: I marked up worksheets. She curled up, feet tucked beneath her,
Speaker 1: and started showing me mock ups for the gallery. Digital
Speaker 1: posters handleted quotes a graphic rendering of Denver's skyline bleeding
Speaker 1: into abstract shapes. This one's Julian s, she said, pointing
Speaker 1: at a kinetic, sprawling design. He sees the city as
Speaker 1: like an organism. It's messy but alive. He's talented, I said,
Speaker 1: jaw tight. Are you too working together a lot? She
Speaker 1: glanced up, eyes searching. He's intense. You'd like him. You
Speaker 1: always say you like people who don't pull punches. She waited,
Speaker 1: watching for my reaction. Maybe I'll meet him at the opening,
Speaker 1: I said, trying to look neutral. She shrugged, twisting her
Speaker 1: thumb inside the hem of her sleeve. Probably he doesn't
Speaker 1: really do couples stuff, though, social anxiety, I don't know.
Speaker 1: Her tone trailed away, evasive. I pressed her a little.
Speaker 1: You used to want to bring me to everything, field trips,
Speaker 1: opening parties. She managed a half laugh. We're not twenty
Speaker 1: five any more, Nate, the scenes different. Besides, you know
Speaker 1: more about guache than most of them put together. It
Speaker 1: was a joke, but flat, something practiced. She changed the
Speaker 1: subject to Victor's new rescue dog, and I let her,
Speaker 1: neither of us willing to risk the sharp edges that
Speaker 1: would come with a deeper cut. That night, sleep was impossible.
Speaker 1: I stared at the ceiling long after her breaths evened out.
Speaker 1: Beside me. Our intimacy felt mechanical, like sleep walking through
Speaker 1: a memory. Monday brought fresh snow. Schools delayed. I worked
Speaker 1: from home, using my lunch hour to follow a hunch.
Speaker 1: I pulled up the venues from the credit card log
Speaker 1: file to Ember Blue Note smaller jazz club I barely
Speaker 1: noticed on our drives home. Each website had galleries, event listings,
Speaker 1: photo streams of packed crowds, and local musicians, tags that
Speaker 1: led to public albums. It didn't take long, They're too
Speaker 1: Often in the background was Marissa, sometimes in sunglasses, sometimes
Speaker 1: laughing with a crowd, always near Julian, whose style was
Speaker 1: instantly recognizable from Marisa's new sketches. One photo showed her
Speaker 1: arm hooked in his, laughing at a joke, heads bent together,
Speaker 1: the kind of easy intimacy that had once belonged to us.
Speaker 1: I clicked through image after image, the mounting evidence stealing
Speaker 1: my breath. It wasn't just cheating. It was a migration,
Speaker 1: a rehoming of her entire identity. She was embedded, integrated
Speaker 1: into this other world, not as a visitor, but as
Speaker 1: a partner. The next day, still reeling, I agreed to
Speaker 1: meet Victor for lunch. We sat at a sandwich shop,
Speaker 1: snow melting from our boots, the city traffic a low buzz.
Speaker 1: You look like crap, Victor said, without ceremony. I feel
Speaker 1: like it, I said, biting into a tasteless turkey club.
Speaker 1: It's bad, Vic, She barely tries any more. He nodded.
Speaker 1: You want me to talk to her. I shook my head.
Speaker 1: I don't want to go between. I want the truth.
Speaker 1: Problem is, I'm not sure I could recognize it from
Speaker 1: her right now if she handed me a notarized letter.
Speaker 1: Victor rested his chin in his hands, eyes flinty. Maybe
Speaker 1: it's not about the details. Maybe she's checked out but
Speaker 1: too scared to admit it. Doesn't make her a villain,
Speaker 1: I bristled. She could just talk to me. She could,
Speaker 1: he agreed softly. But people protect themselves, not always each other.
Speaker 1: He slid an untouched cookie toward me. You need a plan,
Speaker 1: not a story. I left lunch frustrated, sure only of
Speaker 1: the growing gap between my life and my wife s. Midweek,
Speaker 1: Marissa mentioned she'd spend the night with gallery friends, working
Speaker 1: on last minute logistics. We're grinding on the lighting grid
Speaker 1: until after midnight. She looked so earnest as she packed
Speaker 1: her tote, stuffing chargers and a black hoodie inside. That night,
Speaker 1: hart pounding, I sat on the edge of our bed,
Speaker 1: staring at the wall, calculating odds and time lines. By midnight,
Speaker 1: every explanation felt threadbare. Images of her laughing, whispering in
Speaker 1: dark corners overwhelmed my rational mind. I called Lee, finally
Speaker 1: done with pretending. She answered, her voice tight and wary, Lee,
Speaker 1: I need you to be honest. Please. Are Marissa and
Speaker 1: Julian together? Long pause. I don't know for sure, Nate,
Speaker 1: but they're close and I don't think it's just well.
Speaker 1: I haven't seen anything that bad personally, but there are rumors.
Speaker 1: She inhaled, shakily. I tried to ask her once she
Speaker 1: brushed it off. I'm sorry, Nate, did she tell you
Speaker 1: not to say anything? Lee didn't answer directly. She just
Speaker 1: said things are complicated with you, that you d over
Speaker 1: analyze it all. If you want my opinion, I think
Speaker 1: she's lost. I choked back, anger, thanks for trying. I
Speaker 1: hung up and threw my phone across the bed, feeling
Speaker 1: the old trickle of humiliation. I finished the night on
Speaker 1: the balcony with a glass of wine, staring out over
Speaker 1: speckled city lights. Conversations looped in my head, the claustrophobia
Speaker 1: of knowing and not knowing spiraling together. Was Marissa so
Speaker 1: habitual in her dishonesty? Or was I simply blind? Until now?
Speaker 1: Another sleepless week lengthened the ache. I went through motions
Speaker 1: work Jim the diner on Thursdays, smiling when expected, nodding
Speaker 1: at sympathetic glances from staff who noticed my slump. At home,
Speaker 1: Marissa was more careful, less open about her schedule, more
Speaker 1: deliberate in casting herself as over extended. Her apologies sounded
Speaker 1: pre recorded. She stopped bringing home little gifts, as if
Speaker 1: that tactic had outlived its usefulness. Sometimes I wondered if
Speaker 1: she wanted to be caught, or if this was a
Speaker 1: rehearsal for departure, a slow fade rather than a sudden burn.
Speaker 1: Friday night, her phone buzzed after dinner. She excused herself,
Speaker 1: stepping on to the fire escape with her coat half on,
Speaker 1: voice low. I pretended not to hear, but a phrase
Speaker 1: drifted in through the window. Now I can't to night soon,
Speaker 1: I promise. I replayed it, tried to understand whether the
Speaker 1: softness in her tone belonged to longing or regret. I
Speaker 1: cornered her inside, trying for casual, busy week. Tell me
Speaker 1: about it, she said, changing out of her boots. I'm wiped.
Speaker 1: Any one fun coming to town? I pressed. Any plans
Speaker 1: for Sunday? She shrugged, unbothered, Probably just working might catch
Speaker 1: the bask we at exhibit. If I have time, you
Speaker 1: want to go? My heart kicked at the offer. Yeah,
Speaker 1: let's do something just us. She squeezed my hand, warm
Speaker 1: but distracted. Sure, babe. But when Sunday came, she left
Speaker 1: a note on the fridge before I woke. Called into
Speaker 1: a gallery meeting rain check for the museum. I stared
Speaker 1: at the note, anger, fighting with resignation. I couldn't remember
Speaker 1: the last time Marissa had prioritized something we loved. Desperate,
Speaker 1: I decided to confront the web of stories. I checked
Speaker 1: the Constellation Collective's event page, matching times and dates to
Speaker 1: Marissa's supposed commitments. Not once in the last two months
Speaker 1: had a board or volunteers meeting landed on a Sunday.
Speaker 1: Socials showed a few gatherings. Marissa was absent from all
Speaker 1: candid shots posted by others in the spaces where she
Speaker 1: should have existed. She constructed a new person, one I
Speaker 1: barely recognized. That afternoon, ignoring the weight in my chest,
Speaker 1: I drove to Blue Note, planning to sit quietly at
Speaker 1: the bar. The place hummed with the early crowd, patrons
Speaker 1: swirling cocktails, laughing with lazy assurance at the back beside
Speaker 1: a band setting up in the dim, I spotted the
Speaker 1: outline of Marissa, lips painted a bold fuchire, laughing at something.
Speaker 1: Julian whispered, their hands almost touching on the chipped tabletop.
Speaker 1: I watched for an endless minute, a private moment flickering
Speaker 1: in public, as if the rest of the city didn't exist.
Speaker 1: A tightness clenched my lungs. They looked good together, I realized,
Speaker 1: with a jolt, better than I remembered us in months.
Speaker 1: Something inside me gave way. I left without speaking, Anger
Speaker 1: replaced with a quiet, numb clarity. When I got home,
Speaker 1: I appended our catchual drawer, looking for a spare note book,
Speaker 1: a pen, anything to help mark the contours of this
Speaker 1: new reality. My hand found a black moleskin, one of Marissa's,
Speaker 1: thick with her looping, restless handwriting. Inside the cover, I
Speaker 1: found a lone inked in violet, find color where there
Speaker 1: is only compromise. Under it, a page scribbled with future
Speaker 1: plans show with j try Chicago, new start, Finally brave
Speaker 1: my hands shock. This was no accident, no heat of
Speaker 1: the moment, mistake. She was building a new existence enough
Speaker 1: slow rolling devastation. That night I texted Victor, I need
Speaker 1: to stay with you. Awhile can you help me out?
Speaker 1: He replied in seconds, doors always open. I packed a
Speaker 1: bag and left, taking nothing of hers. No need to
Speaker 1: mark territory or hand out punishments, just absence, a blankness
Speaker 1: where my investment had been. I wanted to see whether
Speaker 1: the very act of vanishing would force the truth to
Speaker 1: the surface. It didn't take long. Marisa's first message was rushed, anxious,
Speaker 1: Hey you okay, I'm home. Where are you? Then the
Speaker 1: follow up, if you're mad, call me. We can work
Speaker 1: this out. But I waited, counting heartbeats instead of replying.
Speaker 1: The next morning, a new note, Nate, I don't know
Speaker 1: what's happening. This is scaring me. Please talk. Each word
Speaker 1: rang louder with guilt, but contained no confession. From Victor's couch,
Speaker 1: watching city lights move slowly across the walls, I let
Speaker 1: my mind drift through every shared moment, gallery evenings, when
Speaker 1: Marissa pressed close to critique of painting, nights lying in bed,
Speaker 1: talking about the future, the independent streak in her that
Speaker 1: had always drawn me until it cut. By Wednesday, I
Speaker 1: was certain confrontation was coming. My phone filled with unanswered
Speaker 1: calls Marissa, her mother, even Lee, all offering concern, none explaining.
Speaker 1: At school I was a shell. Students asked if I
Speaker 1: were sick. The principal checked in, suggesting I take a
Speaker 1: few days. A colleague, Donna squeezed my shoulder in the
Speaker 1: copy room. You need anything, holler? Victor listened, largely silent,
Speaker 1: except to pour another bourbon and slide it my way.
Speaker 1: What are you going to do, he asked, head tipped back.
Speaker 1: I was quiet for a long time. I guess I
Speaker 1: confront her to morrow. I had rehearsed the scene so
Speaker 1: many times in my head. The words lost all shape, anger, ebbing,
Speaker 1: until only a tired clarity remained. The next afternoon, I
Speaker 1: drove home just before dusk, the January sun dragging gold
Speaker 1: across the snow caped sidewalks. I opened the door to
Speaker 1: our loft, aloft still half filled with marriage and now
Speaker 1: thick with the scent of abandonment. Marissa was at the table,
Speaker 1: headphones off, intent on some new digital canvas. When she
Speaker 1: looked up, her face folded into creases of worry and relief.
Speaker 1: Thank god, Nate, I was so worried her voice broke,
Speaker 1: genuine fear, under cutting the practiced calm. I sat down
Speaker 1: across from her. My hands were steady, voice softer than
Speaker 1: I meant. We need to talk. She reached toward me,
Speaker 1: searching for my hand. I pulled away. The distance was
Speaker 1: wider now than geography. Her eyes filled, then stealed, is
Speaker 1: this about the gallery stuff? Because I swear it's almost over.
Speaker 1: It's just a crazy few weeks. I shook my head,
Speaker 1: willing her not to lie again. Stop please, I know
Speaker 1: you haven't been at the gallery. I know about blue Note,
Speaker 1: I know about Julian ecstatic silence. Then her face broke, pain, shame,
Speaker 1: a flash of anger. For once, she seemed at a
Speaker 1: loss for language. Nate. She reached again, crumpling under the
Speaker 1: weight of her own invention. As the sun dipped low
Speaker 1: behind us, swallowing the color from the city and everything
Speaker 1: we'd once painted together. She looked so small, slumped in
Speaker 1: her chair, every muscle in her face drawn tight and wary.
Speaker 1: As I stared across the shadow sliced table, My words
Speaker 1: lingered between us, suspended and relentless. Something final hung on
Speaker 1: her next breath. Her voice, when it came, was little
Speaker 1: more than a coarse whisper. How much do you know
Speaker 1: enough to know it isn't the gallery, enough to know
Speaker 1: you're spending your night's at Blue Note with Julian, that
Speaker 1: you haven't been volunteering, not really, not in the way
Speaker 1: you told me. She shut her eyes, lids fluttering. I
Speaker 1: wasn't going to she stopped, started again. I didn't want
Speaker 1: to blow this up, Nate. Her hands twisted in her
Speaker 1: lap until her knuckles whitened. Marissa, if you're going to lie,
Speaker 1: at least use new ones, I said, trying to keep
Speaker 1: the tremor out of my throat. The hush in the
Speaker 1: loft was almost painful, a forced neatness to the air,
Speaker 1: the couch where she'd flung her coat, the plate still
Speaker 1: dirty from breakfasts. When we'd barely spoken, her chin lifted
Speaker 1: for an instant, I saw a spark of the old defiance,
Speaker 1: the woman who argued in galleries, who tore into dogma
Speaker 1: and banality with the edge of a palette knife. You
Speaker 1: don't know what it's been like for months. It's felt
Speaker 1: like I can't breathe in here, like I'm living in
Speaker 1: a painting. I didn't choose. I clamped down, wanting to shout,
Speaker 1: to beg to ask pointless questions, why was I good enough?
Speaker 1: When did I lose you? Instead, something steadier surfaced. Don't
Speaker 1: make this about the apartment, Marissa. You could have told
Speaker 1: me what was happening. You could have been honest. She
Speaker 1: was shaking, lip caught between her teeth so long it
Speaker 1: shone red. She wanted me to pity her. I realized,
Speaker 1: to let her feel like the victim of her own craving.
Speaker 1: I didn't plan it, she said, it just happened. Julian
Speaker 1: and I he sees me in ways I haven't felt
Speaker 1: in so long. I get to build something, be someone
Speaker 1: that isn't just a routine a wife. Eh. My hand
Speaker 1: came down flat on the table, startling us both. You
Speaker 1: think I wanted this routine. You think I would have
Speaker 1: chosen this secrets lies, getting news about my own wife
Speaker 1: from our friends. She flinched, but didn't cry. Her tears,
Speaker 1: I sensed were already spent elsewhere. I'm sorry. I never
Speaker 1: wanted to hurt you. I thought I could keep I
Speaker 1: thought i'd bring it back to us somehow, that i'd
Speaker 1: remember how to want what we had. Silence again, thick
Speaker 1: as wool. I let the ape rise. You weren't just
Speaker 1: cheating you were planning a new life. You weren't even
Speaker 1: going to tell me. She didn't answer, head bowed a
Speaker 1: muscle in her jaw. Ticked, I watched hope dissolve both
Speaker 1: mine and hers. Neither of us moved for a long time.
Speaker 1: The city outside was busy with a world we d
Speaker 1: once believed belonged to us. Inside, Winter's edge crept through
Speaker 1: the gallery, Mailer's and the sculpture Marissa had positioned in sun,
Speaker 1: as if light would save it. I stood, breaking the spell.
Speaker 1: I'm leaving to night. You can keep the place for now.
Speaker 1: I won't. I won't make this uglier than it is.
Speaker 1: She rose, reaching as if to touch my arm, half
Speaker 1: way between comfort and apology, but found nothing to hold. Nate, wait, please,
Speaker 1: just let's can we talk to morrow. I don't know
Speaker 1: how to do this. I need I shook my head,
Speaker 1: swallowing the words I was afraid might turn into pleading.
Speaker 1: You made your choices, Marissa. I'm done being the last
Speaker 1: to know. Defeated, she let her hands fall to her sides.
Speaker 1: She looked impossibly tired, older and younger at once, struggling
Speaker 1: with a grief she'd invited. I packed a duffel in silence,
Speaker 1: moving through rooms where every object felt accusatory. Books, art supplies,
Speaker 1: a half finished sketch Marissa had started across from mine,
Speaker 1: My tooth brush worn thin. A single mug from our
Speaker 1: mismatched set has painted with sunrise, mine with deep indigo.
Speaker 1: I paused at the book shelf, touching the spine of
Speaker 1: a water color monograph she given me for our anniversary,
Speaker 1: then left it behind. I grabbed my coat. The shock
Speaker 1: of winter chilled my skin, even through the bricks and
Speaker 1: double glazing. At the door, she hovered, saying nothing. Our
Speaker 1: parting echoed, no slamming, no shouting, only the muted withdrawal
Speaker 1: of someone who'd spent her courage elsewhere in the stairwell.
Speaker 1: I realized my hands were shaking, not with rage but exhaustion.
Speaker 1: I wanted to sink to the floor, but my body
Speaker 1: kept moving, operating on stubborn momentum. On the street, I
Speaker 1: called Victor, you still got that spare room. My voice
Speaker 1: sounded foreign, filtered through someone else's misery. He said, Anna, time, man,
Speaker 1: need me to come get you. No, I need the walk.
Speaker 1: Each block away from our building felt heavier, as if
Speaker 1: all the gravity I'd brought to our life together was
Speaker 1: pooling behind me. The city was alive with Friday evening,
Speaker 1: the smell of pizza from Tony's music leaking from open
Speaker 1: windows above five points, head lights blu irring along icy streets.
Speaker 1: Once at Victor's, I drifted through pleasantries, letting myself orbit
Speaker 1: inside the safety of his space. He didn't push, just
Speaker 1: offered a bourbon and a blanket, turning the Rockies game
Speaker 1: low on the TV. My phone buzzed a series of short,
Speaker 1: frantic texts from Marissa. I'm sorry, Nate, Please let's talk.
Speaker 1: You can't just disappear. I didn't mean for this to happen.
Speaker 1: I swear. I left them unopened, silencing the phone, sinking
Speaker 1: into the ancient cordera couch. Grateful for the static quiet,
Speaker 1: Victor brought over another drink. He didn't say much, just nodded,
Speaker 1: like he understood that nothing needed decoding. Friendship, at least
Speaker 1: to night took up the space Marissa's explanations once had.
Speaker 1: By late evening, she'd stopped texting. The world got small
Speaker 1: the corner of Victor's living room, the sound of pipes
Speaker 1: rattling above me, a stranger's footsteps. The ache in my
Speaker 1: chest settled into a bruise. The night ground on, I
Speaker 1: watched headlight's smear across the wall, remembered the long arc
Speaker 1: of years that brought me here, the easy joy, then
Speaker 1: the slow drift, then her head bent towards someone else
Speaker 1: in a city bar. Saturday morning, I woke heavy and sore.
Speaker 1: Victor cooked eggs, not asking if I'd slept. My phone
Speaker 1: stayed quiet, but Lee messaged just heard. I'm so sorry.
Speaker 1: Let me know if you want company. The word got
Speaker 1: out surprisingly fast. Shared friends pinged me throughout the day,
Speaker 1: many offering sympathy, but few risking sides. I explain nothing
Speaker 1: told nobody more than we're separated. Let them sort out
Speaker 1: the rest themselves. The apartment was Marissa's at least for now.
Speaker 1: Our routines, our friends, the future we'd orbited, all abruptly partitioned.
Speaker 1: I called the landlord before noon. There'll be a change soon,
Speaker 1: I said, my voice wabbling, just once. I'll be moving out.
Speaker 1: Marissa will stay. I'll get the forms signed in the
Speaker 1: next week. He was bresque but kind, sorry to hear it. Nate,
Speaker 1: you let me know if you need an extension. After
Speaker 1: I called my parents, not for comfort, but to cut
Speaker 1: off questions before they started. It's over, I said, she
Speaker 1: isn't coming back. My mom tried to press, is this
Speaker 1: about work? You too? Always seemed We're done, Mom, that's it.
Speaker 1: She respected my silence, though I could hear her tears.
Speaker 1: The following days uncoiled in sharp, spare hours. I took
Speaker 1: leave from school, citing family issues. Victor's Place acquired the
Speaker 1: routines of a new home, grocery runs where I bought
Speaker 1: only what I could eat in a week. Mornings spent
Speaker 1: staring at lesson plans I had no energy to update.
Speaker 1: I slept little, ate less, shoving my grief into hours
Speaker 1: at the gym or long blank walks through the city.
Speaker 1: Everywhere I turned there were reminders a mural Julian had
Speaker 1: painted Marisa's name, tagged below it in feathery script, the
Speaker 1: sound of sacks spilling out from bars. I used to love,
Speaker 1: the stray hair elastics and sticky notes I found in
Speaker 1: my coat pockets. Marisa's texts faded, replaced by a short email,
Speaker 1: I understand if you can't forgive me, I don't expect
Speaker 1: you to just know. I'm sorry for all of it,
Speaker 1: even if that's too little. Attached a scan of a
Speaker 1: hand written letter listing all the things she wished she'd said.
Speaker 1: I refused to read more than the first line. Friends
Speaker 1: aligned themselves along in visible borders. Lee and Victor solid
Speaker 1: behind me, a few others drifting away, not eager to
Speaker 1: take sides. I heard through the Grapevin that Marissa had
Speaker 1: started sharing more of her life with Julian's crowd. Rumor
Speaker 1: was she was staying with him, or at least spending
Speaker 1: most nights in places that weren't home. I didn't touch her, things,
Speaker 1: didn't go back for forgotten chargers or sketch books. Ownership
Speaker 1: felt meaningless. She offered to mail a few lost items.
Speaker 1: I told her to donate them instead. Each day the
Speaker 1: ache dulled, replaced by a kind of clinical numbness, an
Speaker 1: exposure so deep that even anger seemed like a privilege.
Speaker 1: I patterned my emptiness into new rituals, walking the river
Speaker 1: at dusk, grading papers in coffee shops, calling my brother
Speaker 1: for basketball scores, as if nothing else had changed. For
Speaker 1: a while, I avoided the neighborhood altogether, couldn't bear the
Speaker 1: chance of seeing Marissa or the familiar glow of our
Speaker 1: loft windows. As winter retreated and Denver turned brighter. My
Speaker 1: world shrank tidy and incomplete. One windy afternoon, overcoming a
Speaker 1: strange compulsion, I made my way past the row of
Speaker 1: galleries where we'd first met. Constellation collectives stood shuttered and
Speaker 1: notice taped to the door about delayed renovations. Sunlight hit
Speaker 1: the glass, scattering blue and gold on to the sidewalk.
Speaker 1: I paused, keys cold in my palm, one last shred
Speaker 1: of my old life heavy in my pocket, the unfinished
Speaker 1: sketch book Marissa gave me for our first anniversary. The
Speaker 1: corners were worn, pages thick with beginnings, stalled projects, old
Speaker 1: notes in a handwriting reminders to buy guache, ideas for
Speaker 1: mural themes, don't forget the world still beautiful. I tucked
Speaker 1: the sketch book under my arm and kept walking, letting
Speaker 1: the wind push me down the block, eyes watering not
Speaker 1: from memory, but from the cold clarity of daylight. A
Speaker 1: final image, sunlight glancing off the glass, catching dust in
Speaker 1: the air, the shape of absence as real as anything
Speaker 1: I'd ever touched. I will keep that, I think, just
Speaker 1: the shape, not the story. The sharp afternoon wind chased
Speaker 1: me farther down Larima until my knuckles hurt from clenching
Speaker 1: the sketch book. Every part of the city looked strange,
Speaker 1: buildings painted garish new colors, cafes crammed with strangers, the
Speaker 1: world in forward motion, while my life lagged stuck behind
Speaker 1: glass with all the lights switched off. I wandered numb
Speaker 1: at first, but the pressure inside kept building an ache
Speaker 1: looking for a place to land. That night, alone in
Speaker 1: Victor's guest room, I couldn't sleep. I laid out my
Speaker 1: few belongings in tidy rows on the borrowed dresser, as
Speaker 1: if order would help. My phone buzzed again, this time
Speaker 1: with a message from Marisa's mother. Of all people, call me.
Speaker 1: I just spoke with Marissa. She's not well. For a
Speaker 1: panicked second, I almost replied, but I snapped the phone off.
Speaker 1: I didn't know what Marissa had told her mother, what
Speaker 1: headline version she'd conjured to avoid disgrace or confession. Did
Speaker 1: she even mention Julian's name? Or was I now just
Speaker 1: the husband who fled? The next days, the pain split
Speaker 1: into different kinds. There was the old, dull wound of
Speaker 1: our marriage, grief for traditions, for the shape we once
Speaker 1: made together, And then a newer rour fury at the
Speaker 1: publicness of it all. I couldn't open Instagram without seeing
Speaker 1: the echo photos from mutual friends, parties, and once, unmistakably
Speaker 1: a flash of Marissa seated at a patio table, Julian
Speaker 1: beside her, heads pitched close. It was a knife disguised
Speaker 1: as an accident. The worst part wasn't the betrayal, but this.
Speaker 1: She was different in those pictures, unburdened MESSI alive, as
Speaker 1: though she'd slipped the skin of our history entirely. A
Speaker 1: few days on I ventured back to the loft, not
Speaker 1: to see Marissa, but because I needed my passport and
Speaker 1: a proper jacket. I waited till late, hoping i'd miss her. Still,
Speaker 1: when I let myself in, the lights were on, the
Speaker 1: rooms smelled dense with oil, paint, new air, some incense.
Speaker 1: I didn't recognize. She was at her desk, barefoot, hair
Speaker 1: scraped back, humming tunelessly. I almost turned right back around.
Speaker 1: She looked up, startled, swallowing whatever greeting she wanted to give.
Speaker 1: I didn't think you'd come back. I needed some things.
Speaker 1: I'll be quick. She nodded and went back to her screen,
Speaker 1: but I could feel her watching me the way you'd
Speaker 1: watch a wild animal you hope won't bolt. I stuffed
Speaker 1: my jacket into the duffel, yanked open a drawer for
Speaker 1: my berth certificate. I had to open the closet for
Speaker 1: my old pair of boots, and as I leaned in,
Speaker 1: something slid down from the top shelf, a faded flannel
Speaker 1: from our camping trip last year, landing half inside. Her
Speaker 1: suit case open and already packed half way full with
Speaker 1: her clothes. Are you moving out? I couldn't disguise the
Speaker 1: catch in my throat. Standing there awkwardly, childhood documents in hand,
Speaker 1: she hesitated, fiddling with her earring. I don't know. Maybe
Speaker 1: Julian's got a spare room. Everything here reminds me. Her
Speaker 1: voice trailed off. It hurts to stay that? Did it?
Speaker 1: A rupture of anger burst through? Does it hurt as
Speaker 1: much as being lied to for months? Do you even
Speaker 1: care at all about the mess you've left? My voice
Speaker 1: wasn't sharp, just hollowed out. She flinched, then nodded yes.
Speaker 1: But I can't apologize enough, Nate, I can't fix this.
Speaker 1: I don't know how. For a minute, I stared at her,
Speaker 1: searching for some remnant of the woman i'd once loved.
Speaker 1: I saw the tension, the shadow of something like remorse,
Speaker 1: but also relief. She was half way gone from me already,
Speaker 1: her body still in our apartment, her mind orbiting elsewhere.
Speaker 1: Keep the loft, I said, finally, I'll clear my stuff
Speaker 1: this week end. Tell the landlord what you want. I
Speaker 1: won't fight you for it. She pressed her hands over
Speaker 1: her eyes, squeezing back tears or maybe shame. That's not
Speaker 1: the point. It was never about just leaving you, Nate,
Speaker 1: it was, she exhaled hard. I wish I could explain
Speaker 1: it without sounding like a monster. I let something start
Speaker 1: because I was terrified of what we'd become. Then I
Speaker 1: convinced myself I was just finding myself when I was
Speaker 1: really running away. There was no comfort in it, but
Speaker 1: the honesty was made, the first she'd given me in months.
Speaker 1: I'll be gone by Sunday, I said, voice wooden. I'd
Speaker 1: rather not see Julian here while I finish. That's my
Speaker 1: only request. She swallowed, face crumpling. You won't, I promise,
Speaker 1: I nodded. That was all that remained, bartering the scraps
Speaker 1: of dignity and memory, pretending there was a clean way
Speaker 1: to make a division. I left her standing there, hands
Speaker 1: braced on her knees, room washed in the accidental beauty
Speaker 1: of sunset. I let myself out, shutting the door softly,
Speaker 1: not looking back. The rest of that week was an
Speaker 1: endless crossing, packing boxes, making lists, sending awkward, pointed emils
Speaker 1: to utilities, and the landlord. Victor, helped me load the car,
Speaker 1: his presence constant but silent. I worked my way through
Speaker 1: the apartment, room by room, each object a small heartbreak,
Speaker 1: a postcard from Santa Fe, a chipped mug, Marissa's sketch
Speaker 1: of me napping on the couch. I nearly left it
Speaker 1: all behind, then thought better. I took what was clearly
Speaker 1: mine and left the rest reminders I couldn't stomach. The
Speaker 1: last afternoon, while boxing up books, I heard Marissa come in,
Speaker 1: her steps, careful, intentional. I tensed, bracing for another scene,
Speaker 1: but she paused at the threshold, arms folded tight across
Speaker 1: her chest. Nate, she said, voice more, even now, not pleading,
Speaker 1: just tired. I know you need space, but she hesitated.
Speaker 1: I just want you to know I'm sorry, even if
Speaker 1: that means nothing. I won't try to justify it any more.
Speaker 1: I looked straight at her. She didn't drop her gaze,
Speaker 1: just offered a weak nod. It struck me how small
Speaker 1: we seemed, two people cut down to the bone. I hope,
Speaker 1: she continued, you find whatever it is you lost with me.
Speaker 1: Maybe you already have what I wanted to say, but didn't.
Speaker 1: I lost it twice, once in the drifting, again in
Speaker 1: the truth. I only nodded, take care, Marissa. She wiped
Speaker 1: her face, waving good bye. No hug, no attempt to
Speaker 1: bridge the chasm. She stepped out, careful to close the door, quietly,
Speaker 1: leaving me alone among the final boxes. After I'd packed
Speaker 1: the last of my things into Victor's trunk, I took
Speaker 1: one slow look around the emptier space. I left my
Speaker 1: favorite mug, the one with the indigo swirl, in the
Speaker 1: sink for her. I pocketed the battered sketch book, slipped
Speaker 1: it into my backpack, and walked out, careful not to
Speaker 1: make noise. A steady final silence pressed in as I
Speaker 1: descended the stairs and set my box in the car.
Speaker 1: Snow was falling first of the new month. Fat slow flakes.
Speaker 1: City blocks blurred the world, softening at the edges, as
Speaker 1: if gifting me the mercy of anonymity. Victor dropped me
Speaker 1: at his apartment with a wordless pat on the shoulder.
Speaker 1: I took the sketch book from my bag, holding it
Speaker 1: for a moment, thumb grazing Marissa's swirling note on the
Speaker 1: ear inside cover. The temptation to leaf through every page
Speaker 1: to catalog what was hers and what was mine lasted
Speaker 1: only a minute. I set it on the dresser and
Speaker 1: lay back, eyes open to the dark, letting the ache
Speaker 1: ebb on its own. When sleep found me, it was
Speaker 1: thin and ragged. I woke to the gray drift of
Speaker 1: mid morning light and Victor's radio tuned to NPR. He
Speaker 1: was in the kitchen making coffee, unbothered, anchoring the apartment
Speaker 1: with the small rituals of friendship. I turned off my
Speaker 1: phone for the day. No texts, no new questions, no
Speaker 1: requests for closure. The world felt distant. The urgent pounding
Speaker 1: in my chest was finally only a dull echo, fading
Speaker 1: with each hour. Over the next days, everything became logistics,
Speaker 1: bank forms, new keys, a po box, my brother's jokes
Speaker 1: about how my crappy luck with creative women belonged in
Speaker 1: a country song. Teachers from school sent a card with
Speaker 1: students signatures. Donna brought over a try ray of Ventceilada's
Speaker 1: tucking a note inside You matter, don't disappear. Compassion from
Speaker 1: surprising quarters, awkward but genuine. There was no single jolt
Speaker 1: of relief, just the cumulative effect of small choices, one
Speaker 1: after another. Every so often a wave of panic would
Speaker 1: threaten to drag me back. I forced myself to keep moving,
Speaker 1: grading papers, writing lesson plans, walking long after midnight through
Speaker 1: empty streets. I found I could live inside these routines
Speaker 1: for now. A week after my final trip out of
Speaker 1: the loft, Lee called. She and her partner wanted to
Speaker 1: have me for dinner away. She said to reset the table.
Speaker 1: When I declined, she didn't push, only said she missed me.
Speaker 1: That Marissa hadn't told any one more than that i'd left,
Speaker 1: that she's working a lot. I listened, grateful that somebody
Speaker 1: else cared enough to ask. Now, looking back, nothing about
Speaker 1: my life resembles what I'd imagined. The future I'd built
Speaker 1: is already receding, shapeless. There are days I think of Marisa,
Speaker 1: not with hate or heartbreak, but with a tired, quiet
Speaker 1: pity for both of us, For what we destroyed, just
Speaker 1: trying to chase something we couldn't name. Sometimes a flicker
Speaker 1: of brightness sneaks in a class project that works, a
Speaker 1: sunset so sharp it hurts the possibility of color returning
Speaker 1: some day. And yet there's loss, stubborn as ever. Even
Speaker 1: on the best mornings, waking in Victor's spare room, I
Speaker 1: miss the warmth of our old bed, the easy silence
Speaker 1: of Sunday coffee, the jokes that only Marissa and I
Speaker 1: could invent. But those things feel like they belong to
Speaker 1: some one else, a memory stilled behind glass. I haven't
Speaker 1: seen her since. I hear rumors. Some say she's moved
Speaker 1: in with Julian, that the new gallery show opens next month,
Speaker 1: her name on the flier next to his. I don't
Speaker 1: plan to go. I don't plan to reach out. It's
Speaker 1: late March, when the urge hits. May be closure, may
Speaker 1: be simple masochism. I take the familiar root down town,
Speaker 1: weaving through alleys painted with the signatures of artists I
Speaker 1: only half recognize. Now. The gallery where we met is closed,
Speaker 1: papered over, A faint outline of the old sign ghosted
Speaker 1: on the brick. For a minute, I watched the sun
Speaker 1: split against the windows, throwing fractured rainbows onto the sidewalk.
Speaker 1: In my pocket, the sketch book feels heavier than it should.
Speaker 1: I run my thumb over the cover, breathe in air
Speaker 1: tinged with cold and melting snow. My hands are steadier
Speaker 1: than before, though the ache flares, once sharp as a blade,
Speaker 1: then dulls. I allow myself one last look at the
Speaker 1: place where it all began, not out of longing, but
Speaker 1: from something like respect. I grieve soft and honest. The
Speaker 1: wound is real, but so is the history. As I
Speaker 1: turn away, the city alive behind me, I duck the
Speaker 1: sketch book into my bag. That chapter ours is closed now,
Speaker 1: but not erased, buried in the color of everything that
Speaker 1: came between us. I keep walking, feeling, if not lighter
Speaker 1: than at least myself still moving forward through the brightness
Speaker 1: and shadow where for a short while we both once lived.
Speaker 1: And that is the end. Thank you for listening, and
Speaker 1: I will see you in the next one.