Speaker 1: Rain can make a city feel slowed down and urgent
Speaker 1: at the same time. Drops clattered down gutters, dragged wet
Speaker 1: streaks against the windows, and blurred the Kneon Bakery sign
Speaker 1: across the street into a water color halo. It was
Speaker 1: one of those evenings that felt stolen from February. Not
Speaker 1: spring cold enough to think about gloves, but stubbornly refusing snow.
Speaker 1: My umbrella was leaking at the seams as I rounded
Speaker 1: the corner to our building, keys already pinched between two fingers,
Speaker 1: messenger bag weighing heavy on my hip. I didn't mean
Speaker 1: to stop at all, but I did because the lift
Speaker 1: wasn't working, and I had that ache in my left knee.
Speaker 1: Too many late night walks last week or just bad posture.
Speaker 1: I was more watching my shoes than paying real attention.
Speaker 1: But then I heard it through the stairwell, laughter carrying down.
Speaker 1: It was familiar, that particular strain, the kind you only
Speaker 1: get through wine and repetition. I'd know it anywhere. Mark's
Speaker 1: laugh sharp, almost barking, and someone else's, probably Dan's, lower
Speaker 1: and always a bit behind. The odd thing was I
Speaker 1: hadn't gotten a single text about book club this week.
Speaker 1: I lingered on the second floor, landing for a breath.
Speaker 1: I never hover this way? Is this what paranoia feels like?
Speaker 1: A new, weightless flavor of guilt before you even know
Speaker 1: what you've done wrong. But the whole light flicked on
Speaker 1: and I moved along, lips pressing together tight. It wasn't
Speaker 1: really my habit to snoop on Mark. You always hated
Speaker 1: the words snoop. But then the old door to two
Speaker 1: Sea opened and Missus Abrams blinked at me, clutching her
Speaker 1: poodle under one arm. They're at it again, she said,
Speaker 1: eyes glinting. That club of your husband's, fifth week in
Speaker 1: a row. They're here, passed midnight. Do you know they
Speaker 1: borrowed my corkscrew. I didn't even get it back last time.
Speaker 1: She waved her hand, dismissing it as some urban mystery.
Speaker 1: I managed a brittle smile, not knowing what to say.
Speaker 1: Maybe I'll remind them, I mumbled, though I doubted I would.
Speaker 1: Missus Abrams swept down the stairs. I could hear Dan's
Speaker 1: voice muffled. No trace of books, that was for sure,
Speaker 1: maybe just music. The door to our place was closed,
Speaker 1: but light glowed around the edges. Then my phone buzzed Mark.
Speaker 1: His message popped up. Book club moved last minute to
Speaker 1: Dan's place. Everyone wanted a change, Sorry, didn't want a
Speaker 1: text while driving. Seconds later another don't wait up? Three,
Speaker 1: I called him. He picked up on the second ring.
Speaker 1: His voice sounded off, rushed, as if he was jogging somewhere. Hey, babe, sorry,
Speaker 1: did you not see my texts? Dan's to night? Little
Speaker 1: change of scenery, It just happened fast. There was that,
Speaker 1: just a little too easy tone, the one he used
Speaker 1: when talking to his project clients. I pictured him, eyes
Speaker 1: flicking over his shoulder at whoever was beside him, Marisser
Speaker 1: or Carrow or maybe someone. I didn't know what exactly
Speaker 1: was happening in three b all good, I said, every phrase,
Speaker 1: feeling oddly stiff. You sound busy, so have fun. He
Speaker 1: kept the call short, then something clattered in the background.
Speaker 1: He swore quietly and hung up. Despite what the phone said,
Speaker 1: every sign told me he was here, and yet the
Speaker 1: door stayed firmly closed. I peered through a slot in
Speaker 1: the drawn shade. Two of Mark's friends lounged on the sofa,
Speaker 1: Dan and a bearded guy I only half recognized from
Speaker 1: their poker Night's last spring. There were half empty wine bottles,
Speaker 1: but no open books, just glasses and that vague, sort
Speaker 1: of low conversation I could never quite decipher. I felt
Speaker 1: suddenly outside something I'd been part of for so long,
Speaker 1: like the building was slouching away from me. It wasn't
Speaker 1: sadness exactly, just a hollow spot opening up under my ribs.
Speaker 1: The elevator pinged one floor down, and I shook myself
Speaker 1: out of my days. There were plausible explanations. Maybe it
Speaker 1: was just what Mark said, change of venue. Maybe book
Speaker 1: club had mutated, as it often did, into an excuse
Speaker 1: to drink and complain. But why not tell me? Why
Speaker 1: no invitation? After all these years? Why did I only
Speaker 1: now realize how little I'd been included this week? Passing
Speaker 1: the row of apartment mail boxes, I ran a finger
Speaker 1: along the cool brass. My keys slipped in my palm,
Speaker 1: and I realized how silent the rest of my night
Speaker 1: would be. Strange what you notice when you're not expected.
Speaker 1: Somewhere inside? I peeled off wet shoes, did the rope things,
Speaker 1: tea phone plugged in. Sitting at the kitchen island with
Speaker 1: a sketch book, I tried sketching the warped outline of
Speaker 1: the street lights reflecting in puddles, but it came out
Speaker 1: uneven and stiff. The apartment felt too large and too
Speaker 1: small in new ways. If Mark had truly moved book club,
Speaker 1: why did his jacket hang in the entry. Maybe he'd
Speaker 1: swung by to pick up a bottle they'd left behind.
Speaker 1: Maybe I was overthinking. I ran hot water over my hands,
Speaker 1: slow and deliberate, as if that could wash tension off me.
Speaker 1: That night, I woke up twice to the rain whipping
Speaker 1: the window, Marks still absent. The second time, close to
Speaker 1: two in the morning, I got a quick message crashing
Speaker 1: at Dan's, too late to bother with euber love you
Speaker 1: sleep tight for some one who supposedly wasn't there. He
Speaker 1: blended perfectly into the background noise of our apartment. As
Speaker 1: soon as he returned the next day, he'd slipped in
Speaker 1: around six, carrying coffee and pastries, dropping a paper bag
Speaker 1: on the counter like an offering. He kissed my forehead,
Speaker 1: Sorry for being gone so late. Dan was on a
Speaker 1: roll next week. Let's get back to our routine. O K,
Speaker 1: I missed you. His ease was almost convincing. I made
Speaker 1: myself believe him almost memory is funny. Years ago, at
Speaker 1: a packed art gallery down town, the white walls closing
Speaker 1: in with the hum of conversation. I'd found Mark by accident,
Speaker 1: or I'd noticed his laugh, the exact one that echoed
Speaker 1: in the hallway last night, cutting through the polite talk
Speaker 1: like a flash of color. He'd been arguing with a
Speaker 1: student about Bauhaus typography, gesturing with a glass of cheap chardenay.
Speaker 1: I offered him the only clean napkin left at the table.
Speaker 1: He said designers have the best instincts and asked whether
Speaker 1: I always carried supplies. Everything about him that night had
Speaker 1: a dare to it. The way he interrupted, the way
Speaker 1: he smiled too long. He thrived on friction. I preferred
Speaker 1: note books and corners, sketching in the margins, seeing the
Speaker 1: negative space between people. We began late night walks up
Speaker 1: Millstone Park, mapping out city lights, ducking into closed playgrounds,
Speaker 1: inventing stories about the couples who passed us arm in arm.
Speaker 1: He liked the world a little messy, unexpected, but he
Speaker 1: never wanted to wander far alone. The one time his
Speaker 1: car was towed, he called me rather than his own sister.
Speaker 1: Our communication was the thing people commented on, you guys
Speaker 1: actually talk things out, and I thought that kind of
Speaker 1: blunt honesty would carry us anywhere. We built a rhythm,
Speaker 1: his start up's wild roller coaster and my designer's contract work,
Speaker 1: surviving layoffs and failed product launches, celebrating little winds, staying
Speaker 1: up late to redesign freelance projects. On a Sunday, we
Speaker 1: stitched together a home in this same apartment, chose imperfect
Speaker 1: furniture hung art that we'd argued about until we both caved.
Speaker 1: When we'd hosted our first book club here, just six
Speaker 1: people and too much takeout, I felt like the world
Speaker 1: contracted comfortably around us. Book Club had become ritual. It
Speaker 1: wasn't ever about plot twists or deep literary analysis. People
Speaker 1: showed up for the messy food, the stray debates over
Speaker 1: everything from Kirkgard to comic books, the inevitable bottle of
Speaker 1: merlow someone would spill over the rug. Most months we
Speaker 1: didn't even finish the book, but those nights gave shape
Speaker 1: and anchor to otherwise chaotic schedules, something fixed. Even when
Speaker 1: our gigs were I'd always felt like the quieter half mark,
Speaker 1: soaking up attention, making guests stay too late, dancing with
Speaker 1: my playlist that never made me uncomfortable before. He wanted
Speaker 1: people around him, needed them, and in turn, I learned
Speaker 1: to appreciate hosting. There were space to see both our sides,
Speaker 1: to blend our needs even when they clashed. Still, sometimes
Speaker 1: I wondered if my silence, my need for observation, left
Speaker 1: him hungry for noise I couldn't provide. We both only children,
Speaker 1: parents miles apart, Mark's drifting sister, occasionally appearing at the
Speaker 1: edge of gatherings with a quick hug and a new
Speaker 1: hobby to tell us about no children ourselves, by deliberate choice,
Speaker 1: we have freedom, Mark once said, hugging me from behind
Speaker 1: as we stared at the city lights turning on at dusk.
Speaker 1: We can build anything we want. Nothing needs to be
Speaker 1: secret between us. I had believed him, hung on to
Speaker 1: that phrase in quieter moments, even in busier months. Lately,
Speaker 1: deadline's finicky. As ever, Mark's calender thick with meetings. I
Speaker 1: didn't question that we shared a world. Playful memes flashed
Speaker 1: between us on lunch breaks. He drop his phone mid
Speaker 1: call just to say he loved me before a big pitch.
Speaker 1: There were whole weekends we blocked out for last minute
Speaker 1: drives to the coast, half planned and perfect. Looking back
Speaker 1: on it, the vulnerabilities were already there. My own worry
Speaker 1: that I faded in comparison to his big personality, that
Speaker 1: maybe I was just the intricate foreground to his bold,
Speaker 1: visible brush strokes. But I felt solid, loved, if not
Speaker 1: always in the center of the frame. All of which
Speaker 1: is why when he drew back even a small bit,
Speaker 1: I felt the shift immediately, like when the weather changes
Speaker 1: at dusk. Comfort can be its own precision instrument, you
Speaker 1: know the notes by heart until they vanish. The next Friday,
Speaker 1: Mark called me as I left the coworking space. So
Speaker 1: book clubs going to meet at dan S again, he announced,
Speaker 1: a little too breezily, apparently are upstair. Dare's soloist complained
Speaker 1: about the noise last week, and Dan's got that bigger couch.
Speaker 1: You know how it is. I reflexively reached for my
Speaker 1: phone calendar fingers hovering over our usual book club slot.
Speaker 1: That's sudden, I said, When did this happen last night?
Speaker 1: Mark replied, Marisa started a group chat about it. They
Speaker 1: want to try a different vibe. His enunciation was unusually precise,
Speaker 1: as if rehearsing. Who's bringing food? I asked, expecting the
Speaker 1: usual litany. Maris's vegan salad, Dan's failed casserole, may be
Speaker 1: a cue to contribute something myself. Caarrow's got snacks, Dan's
Speaker 1: handling drinks. Don't worry about anything, honestly, you work too hard.
Speaker 1: Just take the night off. You deserve it. I paused,
Speaker 1: weighing whether to push. I could swing by or pick
Speaker 1: something up on my way home. He cut me off gently,
Speaker 1: Really a Lanna, don't stress. I just want you to
Speaker 1: relax tonight. Okay, we'll do something together this weekend. His
Speaker 1: tone was placating but final. It was such a tiny thing,
Speaker 1: not being asked, not being involved. I swallowed it down,
Speaker 1: told myself it was normal. But all night, every clatter
Speaker 1: from the kitchen or distant sound from the street seemed expectant.
Speaker 1: I roasted sweet potatoes I barely touched. Scrolled through group
Speaker 1: chats and saw nothing, not even a stray meme or
Speaker 1: a blurry group selfie. For years, there de always been
Speaker 1: evidence of these nights, someone posting a snap shot and
Speaker 1: inside jokes spilling over into our d ms. But the
Speaker 1: feeds were silent. I called Jen, my best friend since college,
Speaker 1: and bumbled out the story as neutrally as I could.
Speaker 1: Maybe he just wanted to decompress, she offered, doesn't mean
Speaker 1: anything's wrong. Maybe they needed a fresh spot. You know
Speaker 1: how Mark gets when a routine stuck, maybe, I replied,
Speaker 1: it just feels. I couldn't articulate it yet, not threatening,
Speaker 1: just off kilter. The next morning, he greeted me in
Speaker 1: the kitchen, wrestling a stuck sereal box from the cabinet,
Speaker 1: whistling some tune from years back. You want coffee, he offered,
Speaker 1: Eyes soft, easy open. But when I jokingly asked about
Speaker 1: book club about whether Dan's couch survived the night, he
Speaker 1: just smiled and said, you know how it is. Too
Speaker 1: many opinions, not enough actual reading. He glanced away, setting
Speaker 1: the coffee pot down with a careful tap. I considered
Speaker 1: insisting pressing for details. Instead, I let it drift, watching
Speaker 1: him move around our kitchen with the sleepy coordination of
Speaker 1: someone who'd just come home from a long trip. Maybe
Speaker 1: Jen was right, Maybe nothing meant anything at all. A
Speaker 1: week later, I began to see the patterns, not the shape,
Speaker 1: of betrayal. Exactly, just the way something starts to shiver
Speaker 1: at the seams. Mark was glued to his phone more
Speaker 1: than usual, not in the aimless way. He sometimes fell
Speaker 1: into twitter holes, but always half way toward the hallway door,
Speaker 1: stepping out with the phone pressed clothes. Sometimes he glanced
Speaker 1: at me first, a quick check, his eyes darting as
Speaker 1: though assessing if I needed anything, before he disappeared. When
Speaker 1: he came back, he'd wear the afterglow of an intense
Speaker 1: secret joke. I didn't want to eavesdrop, but the name
Speaker 1: book Club flashed on his screen when he set it down,
Speaker 1: always followed by a dismissive just logistics, don't worry. He
Speaker 1: laughed about it once when I asked if I was
Speaker 1: missing some mean storm, saying, you know how this group
Speaker 1: is endlessly planning, arguing about meeting spots. It's too much. Honestly.
Speaker 1: On Saturday, at brunch with Dan and Marissa at the
Speaker 1: place with the sunniest blue tiles, I tried to join
Speaker 1: the nostalgia, said I missed the old book club nights,
Speaker 1: teased them about ruining our best take out plates. Dan nodded,
Speaker 1: chewing a forkful of eggs, but was curiously evasive. Ah,
Speaker 1: you know, it's just drinks now, really not much to
Speaker 1: catch up on. Marisas steered the conversation toward a work drama,
Speaker 1: never meeting my eye. Any other week they be shared
Speaker 1: stories about Dan's failed literary cocktails or Mars's book wrecks
Speaker 1: going viral. That underton, something purposely held back clanged in
Speaker 1: my mind. Dan excused himself to answer a call. Marissa
Speaker 1: fiddled with the salt shaker. I noticed for the first
Speaker 1: time how quickly talk turned to anything but the group.
Speaker 1: That afternoon, I was running laundry when I found it,
Speaker 1: a crumpled receipt wedged in the side pocket of Mark's
Speaker 1: black rain jacket. An expensive wine bar, not our old local,
Speaker 1: but some place in the historic district, too far south
Speaker 1: for any of our friend's usual haunts. The dates stunned me.
Speaker 1: Three nights ago, the so called book club night service
Speaker 1: for two tasting menu, a bottle of Napa something. It
Speaker 1: added up to a bill nobody would rack up for
Speaker 1: a casual guise night. I stared at the print out,
Speaker 1: half expecting it to blur to belong to some one else.
Speaker 1: My first instinct was to ask to make a joke,
Speaker 1: but I didn't, maybe out of cowardice, maybe self preservation. Instead,
Speaker 1: I tucked it inside a note book and waited to
Speaker 1: see what else would slide loose little things. Lisa, our
Speaker 1: friend who was always chronicling book club with candid phone shots,
Speaker 1: stopped posting entirely. She waved off my attempts to chat,
Speaker 1: saying she was slammed at work. Last time I saw
Speaker 1: her at the store, she seemed hurried, kept her sunglasses
Speaker 1: on the whole time. Mark's moods swung like a pendulum,
Speaker 1: sometimes hyperattentive, bringing home pastries I liked, curling behind me
Speaker 1: on the couch, sometimes distracted short his patience, cracking for
Speaker 1: no cause, apologetic afterward, over compensating with compliments. I wondered
Speaker 1: if he'd read somewhere that acts of service fix everything.
Speaker 1: A sharper change was his cologne, deep spicy, nothing like
Speaker 1: the citrus one I'd gotten him for his birthday last year.
Speaker 1: The old bottle vanished, This new one planted on his
Speaker 1: shelf unspoken. Our finances rarely came up. I handled bills,
Speaker 1: Mark managed other investments, But that week I caught a
Speaker 1: note in our joint account, a large withdrawal marked only
Speaker 1: thanks the vagueness strung. Only after prodding did Mark say
Speaker 1: it was from losing a bet over fantasy football, waving
Speaker 1: me off with the slightly theatrical I owe Dan big.
Speaker 1: Don't ask me to explain further, babe. Maybe the most
Speaker 1: jarring bit. Three times before he set plans for the week,
Speaker 1: he checked my schedule, sometimes under the guise of wanting
Speaker 1: to co ordinate something special. Don't make plans next Thursday.
Speaker 1: I might take you out, but other times for nothing,
Speaker 1: just curious. And his laptop, usually left open on the
Speaker 1: spare desk, started closing with a sharp click whenever I entered.
Speaker 1: I oscillated between feeling like a villainous snoop and feeling invisible.
Speaker 1: I stopped myself ten times from stalking through his texts
Speaker 1: or emails. What would that even yield? Would seeing a
Speaker 1: flirty emoji confirm anything? Or just make me feel worse?
Speaker 1: There's a kind of quicksand to this sort of suspicion.
Speaker 1: The more you move, the deeper you sink. By the
Speaker 1: time next Friday crept up, I felt split. I missed
Speaker 1: our old life, the reassuring predictabilities. I hated that my
Speaker 1: best hope was for nothing to be wrong. When Mark
Speaker 1: breezed in, hair rained flat, carrying a jim bag crammed
Speaker 1: with note books, he pressed his lips to my forehead.
Speaker 1: A beat too long, Hey, just heading out, thou might
Speaker 1: keep us late. Wait up, grabbed dinner for you. It's
Speaker 1: in the fridge, he paused, then hesitated at the door.
Speaker 1: You know I love you. It caught me off guard.
Speaker 1: I managed a smile. I know I meant it. I
Speaker 1: wanted to mean it. I watched the window, saw his
Speaker 1: uber pull away through lances of rain, then sat with
Speaker 1: the silence, plucking nerves one by one. Relief needs to
Speaker 1: come from somewhere, reel or it just floats away with
Speaker 1: the first breeze. I decided, after three nights of brittle
Speaker 1: sleep and silent dinners, to try the old ritual, a
Speaker 1: date night. Nothing fancy, just the little Greek place around
Speaker 1: the corner where we used to kill hours over mes
Speaker 1: platters and too many stories. When I pitched it, Mark
Speaker 1: looked grateful, even a little relieved. God, yes, feels like
Speaker 1: I haven't seen you in weeks, he said, kissing my
Speaker 1: hand in an old fashioned way. The nervous energy that
Speaker 1: had haunted his shoulders seemed to drain, replaced by something softer.
Speaker 1: Over dinner, he opened up more than he had in weeks,
Speaker 1: admitting how his main client at the consulting firm was
Speaker 1: getting cold feet, how much pressure he felt to close
Speaker 1: the deal. It's not you, he said, picking at his bread.
Speaker 1: I just needed some mental space. Didn't want to drag
Speaker 1: you into my work stress. He smiled ruefully. I'm sorry
Speaker 1: for being such a pain. The urge to question, to
Speaker 1: pick at receipts and calendars faded. Maybe I d invented
Speaker 1: a mountain from a knot of stress. We lingered over wine,
Speaker 1: trading stories about the worst clients and the weirdest meetings.
Speaker 1: By the walk home, hands linked in the cold, I
Speaker 1: felt the wire in my chest unspooled. For a week,
Speaker 1: I made myself trust again, trusted that what I saw
Speaker 1: and what I heard were the same thing. Then one
Speaker 1: Thursday morning, as I scrambled eggs before work, my phone
Speaker 1: pinged with a group chat notification the book club thread
Speaker 1: Mark was always using, Except this time the message landed
Speaker 1: in my in box, not his. Let's do it again
Speaker 1: next Wednesday. This time, I promise we actually talk about
Speaker 1: the book. Missed you last night? Mark? It wasn't meant
Speaker 1: for me, but it cracked the shell I'd built for myself.
Speaker 1: Not only was book club happening without him, he wasn't
Speaker 1: even present, and none of his alibis, his careful scheduling
Speaker 1: could explain away a message miscent. I stared at the
Speaker 1: phone as if it might shift shape and explain itself.
Speaker 1: I scrolled back through the thread, the last dates, the
Speaker 1: gathering photos, not a single mark in sight any recent week,
Speaker 1: and no mention of plans anywhere near by. All the
Speaker 1: ease I'd rebuilt from that one night out with Mark curdled.
Speaker 1: I didn't speak to him about it, not yet. I
Speaker 1: just started paying sharper attention, feeling the old anxiety flare
Speaker 1: at the edges. If he hadn't been with book club,
Speaker 1: where was he going? What was worth all the elaborate
Speaker 1: stories he called that night, his voice warmly familiar, telling
Speaker 1: me about a late client dinner. My responses were flat,
Speaker 1: stripped to monosyllables. He didn't notice, or pretended not to.
Speaker 1: I ducked into the bathroom, and, hands shaking, tried to
Speaker 1: reconstruct all the dates, book club, consulting, dinners, wine bar, receipts,
Speaker 1: stray long euber rides. It didn't make linear sense, and
Speaker 1: that was what made it impossible to ignore. People lie
Speaker 1: about little things all the time, but Mark always hated lies,
Speaker 1: So why now? I tried to sleep, tossing in the
Speaker 1: bed too big for one. Eventually, as dawn snuck through
Speaker 1: the blinds, I realized that to get peace, I'd have
Speaker 1: to start looking in places I'd always promised myself I wouldn't.
Speaker 1: I spent the next two evenings quietly scrolling our old
Speaker 1: group chats, flicking through emails for details i'd once ignored.
Speaker 1: So much interaction blurred together in the ride app history
Speaker 1: we shared almost as a joke. To track receipts, I
Speaker 1: noticed a regular pattern. He'd never mentioned. Drop offs at
Speaker 1: a boutique hotel near his office, always un supposed book
Speaker 1: club nights, always returning home after midnight, or claiming to
Speaker 1: crash at Dan's. There were room service charges linked to
Speaker 1: our joint account, cleverly masked but repetitive. I became hyperaware
Speaker 1: of the choreography of evasion. The moment's Mark double checked
Speaker 1: my calendar before his own plans, the quiet closing of
Speaker 1: his laptop at my approach, even the ways he volunteered
Speaker 1: details that I hadn't asked for. Finally, I made up
Speaker 1: an excuse to visit Lisa, dropping off a design book
Speaker 1: she'd once mentioned. Her apartment was cluttered with half finished
Speaker 1: water colors and plants bursting from coffee mugs. She seemed
Speaker 1: out of sorts, nervy, wringing her hands around a chipped mug,
Speaker 1: so book club still circling the drain. I asked, breezy
Speaker 1: as possible. She froze for half a beat, then shrugged,
Speaker 1: not meeting my eye. I haven't gone in weeks, been
Speaker 1: so slammed with work. I think Dan's still trying to
Speaker 1: keep it together, but honestly I just can't. I pressed
Speaker 1: a bit, thought maybe you'd switched knights and saw her
Speaker 1: jaw titan. No, it kind of fizzled. Look, Alanna, I
Speaker 1: really may be talk to Mark. It's not my business.
Speaker 1: She didn't look at me as I left, a faint
Speaker 1: flush in her cheeks as she thanked me for the book.
Speaker 1: I walked the soft Oggie two blocks home, heart pattering
Speaker 1: in time with each step. If Lisa wasn't going, and
Speaker 1: if Mark wasn't either, then who was he meeting and
Speaker 1: why was he lying so thoroughly, so skillfully. That's Saturday.
Speaker 1: I cornered Marissa at the coffee place where she worked weeknds.
Speaker 1: I ordered a cappuccino, clutched the ceramic mug as if
Speaker 1: it was keeping me upright, and leaned in during a
Speaker 1: lull between customers. Marissa, I need to ask you straight
Speaker 1: what's been going on with Mark. I just want to
Speaker 1: know if he's all right. To her credit or perhaps
Speaker 1: her discomfort, she didn't lie outright. She just looked tired,
Speaker 1: sadness tugging down her mouth. Alana, I stopped going to
Speaker 1: those meet ups a while ago. I saw something I
Speaker 1: shouldn't have, and I just couldn't be thereafter. I think
Speaker 1: you need to talk to him directly. She wouldn't specify
Speaker 1: what something was, but her unease seared through me. Even
Speaker 1: Mark's sister, usually so quirkily blunt, shut down after I
Speaker 1: texted her our first real extra change in weeks. I
Speaker 1: can't really speak for him, she replied, but I hope
Speaker 1: you're okay. Let me know if you ever want to talk.
Speaker 1: Her old emoji laden enthusiasm was missing. I didn't confront Mark,
Speaker 1: not yet. Instead, I spent late evenings the city settled
Speaker 1: into its blue hued hush, deep diving into our bank loggins.
Speaker 1: The room service charges lined up, neatly matched, ride shares,
Speaker 1: boutique hotel charges, all clustered on nights, presumably reserved for
Speaker 1: something innocent with friends. The math was as clear as
Speaker 1: the glass of the empty wine bottles left on our
Speaker 1: porch from parties now long past. The shape of my
Speaker 1: marriage was changing under my own fingers, detail by bright detail.
Speaker 1: I began to question everything, what I knew, what I didn't,
Speaker 1: the nature of secrecy itself, Mark who insisted nothing needs
Speaker 1: to be secret between us. Maybe that was true, or
Speaker 1: maybe it's just what you tell someone when you want
Speaker 1: to keep reality from knocking at the door. Still without
Speaker 1: the whole truth, I was left in the hollow space
Speaker 1: between old routines and new fears, the pause before the
Speaker 1: story's end, where everything can still be explained away if
Speaker 1: you just try hard enough. But I was tired of explanations.
Speaker 1: I was almost ready to ask for truths. I started
Speaker 1: staying later at the coworking space, claiming deadlines, but really
Speaker 1: just stalking the outer rim of our old life, watching
Speaker 1: patterns and shy opportunities for evidence. Even in the hum
Speaker 1: of the afternoon bustle, my mind would slip away. If
Speaker 1: Mark was at book club when he said he was,
Speaker 1: what was he doing at those hotels? And if he
Speaker 1: wasn't with our friends, then who was worthy of this
Speaker 1: much concealment? My suspicion was a living thing, a dog
Speaker 1: tugging on the leash, sensing where I hadn't dared to look.
Speaker 1: Each night, coming home felt less like entering my own
Speaker 1: space and more like walking back into a story I
Speaker 1: hadn't written. Monday, I found a forgotten sweat and the
Speaker 1: drier mine, but inside out sleeves twisted, smelling slightly of
Speaker 1: a different detergent. I wondered when Mark had last done
Speaker 1: laundry at home. The days had started stacking oddly, his
Speaker 1: routines growing unfamiliar. When he was home, his presence filled
Speaker 1: a room, almost as if he was making amends for
Speaker 1: recent absences. He was all gestures, an extra mug of tea,
Speaker 1: a plate of cut fruit. His phone always turned face
Speaker 1: Doe now forced solicitousness in his smile. I should have
Speaker 1: found comfort in it, but I didn't. Even Kindness felt curated,
Speaker 1: a performance tailored for an audience of exactly one late
Speaker 1: at night, with the city's traffic siphoning away beneath the window.
Speaker 1: I tried to make sense of the time length. The
Speaker 1: urge to lay everything out, notes, receipts, my own fragmented
Speaker 1: memories grew stronger, but to organize evidences, to admit you
Speaker 1: need it. So I lingered in limbo, bracing for a sign.
Speaker 1: It arrived, not as some grand revelation, but as another
Speaker 1: smaller oddity. A mismatched pair of wine glasses in the dishwasher,
Speaker 1: smeared with lipstick. I never wore red, but not my
Speaker 1: brick shade. Something deeper, a color Mark had once told
Speaker 1: me looked too dramatic. When I tried it on a
Speaker 1: whim last winter, the thought that I was building a
Speaker 1: case over the difference between Merlow and garnet colored smears
Speaker 1: was almost comical, if it didn't feel so damning. On Thursday,
Speaker 1: Mark texted in the afternoon, running late long conference call,
Speaker 1: ordered dinner without me, the tel till period at the
Speaker 1: end of the sentence. For years, his messages to me
Speaker 1: were littered with typos, lower case I s. A bad
Speaker 1: habit of ellipses. This readiness, this practiced formality rang false.
Speaker 1: I closed my laptop and decided to walk instead of
Speaker 1: take the train home. I needed the air outside the
Speaker 1: city newly dried after a storm, the world felt ruthlessly normal.
Speaker 1: The bakery across from our building was still open, scattering
Speaker 1: sugar hearts over scones, the delivery vans honking cheerfully at
Speaker 1: the curb. I let myself drift past, then took a
Speaker 1: seat on the curb beneath our stoop, watched shadows cross
Speaker 1: the third floor windows. Our apartment glowed with the steady
Speaker 1: yellow light of a lamp mark always left on when
Speaker 1: he went out. He'd started leaving it on even when
Speaker 1: he was supposedly home elsewhere. Small continuity that made no sense.
Speaker 1: My phone vibrated, Jen, dinner to morrow. I have wine
Speaker 1: and enough complaints about my boss to drown us both.
Speaker 1: I almost made an excuse, then realized I needed to
Speaker 1: talk to some one who lived outside the story i'd
Speaker 1: fallen into. At her place, bare walls, always in flux,
Speaker 1: a new art poster every month. Jen poured generous splashes
Speaker 1: of sancerrah and waited for me to spiral out o
Speaker 1: Ka Lannie level with me, She said, is this about
Speaker 1: the book club thing or something? Else. I chewed my lip,
Speaker 1: eyes on the rim of my glass. It's everything and
Speaker 1: nothing the way he's acting the hotel. Wait, I didn't
Speaker 1: tell you about the hotel. That's crazy, right, How do
Speaker 1: I even begin to explain following someone's ride app history.
Speaker 1: My voice wavered between self effacement and desperation. She gave
Speaker 1: me a long, gentle look. I mean, it's not great,
Speaker 1: but it's not the worst thing a person might do
Speaker 1: if they're worried. Do you really think he's She stopped herself,
Speaker 1: took a breath. Never mind. Look, I know Mark, he
Speaker 1: gets so wound up about his work and he hates
Speaker 1: fighting with you. It could be some weird coping mechanism,
Speaker 1: but if your gut says it's off, don't let him
Speaker 1: gaslight you out of what you're feeling. I nodded, then
Speaker 1: felt the words catch in my throat. I keep thinking
Speaker 1: of the early days, how we promised no secrets. I
Speaker 1: would have known back then if something was wrong. I
Speaker 1: would have known before I even needed to ask. Jen smirked,
Speaker 1: poured another splash. Yeah, well, people change, or maybe just
Speaker 1: lose track of themselves. Doesn't mean you imagined all the
Speaker 1: years that came before she said, softer this time. But
Speaker 1: if he's hiding something, you're allowed to want the truth.
Speaker 1: No more, no less. On the way home, her words
Speaker 1: looped in my head. No more, no less? Was I
Speaker 1: asking too much, wanting facts when everything in my marriage
Speaker 1: had been about intuition, about soft landings and honest confessions.
Speaker 1: Mark was already asleep or feigning it when I came in,
Speaker 1: blankets pulled high. His phone for once wasn't on the
Speaker 1: night stand. I searched for the shape of his back
Speaker 1: under the covers and felt the foreignness of it. The
Speaker 1: space between us was suddenly all borders. The days that
Speaker 1: followed were patchwork in public. We played our parts in private.
Speaker 1: The silence between us turned viscous, words thickening mid air
Speaker 1: at breakfast, I watched him linger over answering texts, glancing
Speaker 1: at the screen with a smile he'd forgotten to show me.
Speaker 1: I said nothing, too exhausted for the pretense of concern.
Speaker 1: I'm mute. Stual friend Lisa sent me a single emoji
Speaker 1: in response to my book club inquiry, a shrug, not
Speaker 1: even a text. And never known her to be so guarded,
Speaker 1: I scrolled through her social media, hoping for a hint
Speaker 1: or an accidental photo that would explain away the growing confusion.
Speaker 1: But almost all recent posts were old artwork or reposted memes,
Speaker 1: nothing tagging Mark, nothing at all about any recent club.
Speaker 1: On Sunday, Mark found me cross legged on the hall floor,
Speaker 1: with the contents of my bags scattered around me. He
Speaker 1: crouched concerned, flickering in his eyes. Lose your keys again,
Speaker 1: he asked, playfully, bumping my leg with his knee. I
Speaker 1: forced a laugh. No, just it's nothing, never mind. I
Speaker 1: was searching for the receipt, wanting the comfort of physical
Speaker 1: proof in a world suddenly weightless. Instead, I found an
Speaker 1: old sketch he'd drawn in the corner of a napkin,
Speaker 1: the two of us at a cafe, done in his scratchy,
Speaker 1: over stylized hand, I nearly crumpled. Mark was watching me,
Speaker 1: wary you. O kay, you've seemed somewhere else lately. I
Speaker 1: met his gaze for the first time in days. Maybe
Speaker 1: I am. He reached for my hand, but let it
Speaker 1: fall when I didn't reciprocate work right. I know I've
Speaker 1: been out a lot. Next week's busy too, but after that,
Speaker 1: let's take a long week. Nd just us O kay.
Speaker 1: I waited, hoping for a further explanation. When none came,
Speaker 1: I nodded Shaw the coast, our favorite escape, years of
Speaker 1: layered memory, something we'd used to fix whatever cracks appeared
Speaker 1: between us. The hope flickered inside. If he was willing
Speaker 1: to run away with me, maybe things weren't truly broken.
Speaker 1: But a few hours later he demurred, actually, can we
Speaker 1: rain check that there's this pitch coming up and my
Speaker 1: head's just elsewhere? Of course, I said quietly. We both
Speaker 1: pretended it was mutual. On Tuesday, after another night of uneasy,
Speaker 1: fragmented sleep, I found myself at the wine bar from
Speaker 1: Mark's receipt. It was on an unfamiliar corner, handsomely lit,
Speaker 1: the sort of place that made you feel underdressed no
Speaker 1: matter how you tried. I sat at the bar, ordered
Speaker 1: his favorite Malbeck, and watched the comings and goings of
Speaker 1: the afterwork crowd. I half hoped for a familiar face,
Speaker 1: a glimmer of closure. Maybe Mark would walk in sheepishly
Speaker 1: surprised and find some ridiculous way to explain it all.
Speaker 1: But the only people to occupy the banquette were strangers
Speaker 1: with other entanglements. I left after a single glass, feeling
Speaker 1: drained and lost, like the city had shifted beneath my feet.
Speaker 1: What was I looking for proof? Or just a sense
Speaker 1: that my intuition wasn't leading me astray? That night, as
Speaker 1: I lay awake, I turned over the evidence book club
Speaker 1: deliberately excluding me for the first time in years. Mark's
Speaker 1: fussy cover stories, the random charges, our friends, awkward silences.
Speaker 1: None of it quite added up, and yet it armed
Speaker 1: a pattern I couldn't ignore. Pressing further, I dug through emails, mine,
Speaker 1: not his calendar, invitations, replies from friends, confirmations about past meetings. Slowly, painfully,
Speaker 1: pieces fell away. There had been no recent group messages
Speaker 1: sent to me. The last invite had gone to Mark only.
Speaker 1: I tried reaching out jokingly on the club thread, saying
Speaker 1: I'd missed the last few sessions, only to get a
Speaker 1: handful of thumbs ups and not a single personal message.
Speaker 1: The social silence was not accidental, it was policy. The
Speaker 1: next day, as I washed dishes, Mark sidled up beside me,
Speaker 1: phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, speaking in a
Speaker 1: low tone. Yeah, yeah, no problem. I can meet you
Speaker 1: at seven, Just don't order until I get there. Okay,
Speaker 1: see you, He hung up, then caught my look. Client
Speaker 1: thing last minute. Sorry. He slid arms around my waist,
Speaker 1: eyes searching. You worry too much, Alanna, It's really nothing.
Speaker 1: I'll be home soon, promise. I pressed my hands over his,
Speaker 1: searching for a word that wouldn't detonate everything. Right there,
Speaker 1: you know you can tell me if you're having a
Speaker 1: hard time. Right. My voice turned smaller than intended. His
Speaker 1: hands tightened just subtly. There's nothing to worry about, I swear,
Speaker 1: let it go. A trace of irritation colored his voice.
Speaker 1: First time in years I'd heard it. I shrugged out
Speaker 1: of his grip. I'm not the one who somewhere else
Speaker 1: all the time. He fell silent, then said I'll make
Speaker 1: it up to you, But his footsteps down the hall
Speaker 1: were heavy. I knew then that love wasn't a shield
Speaker 1: against doubt. What do you do when facts go limp
Speaker 1: and everything left is just feeling half shadow? The private
Speaker 1: math of secrets. The following week, I called Dan, our
Speaker 1: most reliably blundering friend, under the pretense of needing his
Speaker 1: input on a logo I was designing for his side project.
Speaker 1: We met at a burrito place around the corner from
Speaker 1: his office. Late lunch, crowded and anonymous. He looked jumpy,
Speaker 1: fidgeting with the foil on his drink. So ah, how's Mark,
Speaker 1: he asked, after the smallest of small talk. I was direct, honestly,
Speaker 1: I wish I knew. He's been hard to catch lately.
Speaker 1: Dan shifted, that's Mark, always hustling. He's look I guess
Speaker 1: book club's not really the same these days. He paused,
Speaker 1: searching for the right lie and coming up short. I
Speaker 1: haven't seen much of him either. To be honest, you haven't,
Speaker 1: I pressed, feigning astonishment. Dan shrugged, No, not really. Last
Speaker 1: week was I don't know, random. Maybe we're all getting
Speaker 1: old funny, Mark said, you all hung out, must be
Speaker 1: some mix up. I tried to catch his eye, but
Speaker 1: he looked away. He laughed, fake and ragged. Guess nobody
Speaker 1: tells me anything any more. He changed the subject so
Speaker 1: clumsily I almost respected the effort. I left feeling grimly vindicated.
Speaker 1: The lies were Unspooling home that night, Mark was exuberant,
Speaker 1: rushing in with take out and a joke about bad traffic.
Speaker 1: I let him talk, nodding along, asking about his day.
Speaker 1: He supplied detail after careful detail. His work meetings, the
Speaker 1: new lobby couches a joke. Dan had texted him. His
Speaker 1: story was as air tight as plastic rap. All those
Speaker 1: little lies neat in their sequence didn't bend. I listened
Speaker 1: for holes, but none appeared. I started to understand he'd
Speaker 1: practiced this, preempted every question. There would never be a
Speaker 1: moment when he'd simply stumble and spill. If I wanted
Speaker 1: the truth, I'd have to chase it. At midnight, lying
Speaker 1: back to back, I whispered into the dark. Did you
Speaker 1: ever wish we were more honest with each other? He stirred,
Speaker 1: voice thick with sleep. I think we're as honest as
Speaker 1: any one can be, Babe, go to sleep, please. But
Speaker 1: I couldn't, not until I had answered. Days later, a
Speaker 1: tiny thread offered itself to me a ride share notification,
Speaker 1: not mine, pinged through on the shared account. He never
Speaker 1: disconnected his phone from mine after a sink last fall,
Speaker 1: and I could still see the occasional automated update in
Speaker 1: my email. The hotel again, the same one. Arrival at
Speaker 1: seven eleven, departure after midnight on the book club night,
Speaker 1: no other stops, no deturs. I screenshotted it my hands
Speaker 1: trembling patterns are not proof, my rational mind insisted, but
Speaker 1: my body disagreed. That finally broke my inertia. I needed
Speaker 1: to see this place for myself. Nervous and shaking, I
Speaker 1: dressed sharply, pulled on my old wool coat, and keyed
Speaker 1: the hotel address into my phone. The lobby was scented
Speaker 1: with something expensive, lemon and cedar, memory layered thick as rugs.
Speaker 1: I hovered near the bar, pretending to nurse a NEGRONI
Speaker 1: watching the couples swirl in and out, business casual laughter,
Speaker 1: polished at the edges, my eyes on the elevators, noting
Speaker 1: the comings and goings of consultants with suit cases, a
Speaker 1: woman in a teal dress, a man with Mark's easy walk,
Speaker 1: but not his face. No sign of him to night,
Speaker 1: but I felt absurdly close, as if breathing the same
Speaker 1: air might impart understanding. I watched the bartender refal glasses,
Speaker 1: hand off keys, slide a little notepad into the till
Speaker 1: the anonymity burned. People here were hiding or being found out,
Speaker 1: was bending around their desires or stories or both. That
Speaker 1: was the climate, the purpose, The ordinary nature of it
Speaker 1: made my blood fizz I left with nothing but adrenaline
Speaker 1: and the confirmed knowledge that Mark's pattern was still operating. Discreet, careful, hidden,
Speaker 1: not an accident, not a phase outside the city spun on,
Speaker 1: indifferent to my unraveling marriage. That weekend, our friends hosted
Speaker 1: a gathering, a good bye party for a neighbor moving
Speaker 1: to Toronto. Mark insisted we go together, and I watched
Speaker 1: us play the best version of ourselves, him with his
Speaker 1: arm around my waist, me offering sparkling water refills, laughed
Speaker 1: as sharp and smooth on my tongue. Marisser and Lisa
Speaker 1: hovered on the outskirts, sharing glances. I pretended not to notice.
Speaker 1: As the night wore on, I caught Marisser in the
Speaker 1: kitchen alone, swirling ice in her empty cup. I risked it. Marisser,
Speaker 1: was it really just a book club? Or was it
Speaker 1: something else? She sighed, laying her cup down gently. Alanna,
Speaker 1: I care about both of you. I do, But sometimes
Speaker 1: what you want to know can't come from some one else.
Speaker 1: I think you already know what's going on, or at
Speaker 1: least you can guess, but you have to hear it
Speaker 1: from him. That's not fair, I whispered, throat, closing up
Speaker 1: it's not fair, she agreed softly, but that's where it is.
Speaker 1: She touched my arm as if sorry for being the messenger,
Speaker 1: then walked away. I was so tired suddenly, of tiptoeing,
Speaker 1: of me making space for everyone else's discomfort, of being careful.
Speaker 1: I decided not to go home. I texted Mark, told
Speaker 1: him I was staying over at Gen's phones off. Needed
Speaker 1: a girl's night, he replied, too quickly. Enjoy love you.
Speaker 1: Sitting in Jen's guest room, eating her junk food and
Speaker 1: staring at the ceiling, I replayed every small detail of
Speaker 1: the last month, the growing void, the carefully stoked distractions,
Speaker 1: the subtle pealing away of each friend, like the removal
Speaker 1: of supports from a house I didn't know was condemned.
Speaker 1: Mid morning, I resolved to press forward. I needed to
Speaker 1: know what line had been crossed, what I'd missed. I
Speaker 1: called the hotel in question, under the guise of confirming
Speaker 1: a reservation for my husband. Fishing for information, The desk clerk,
Speaker 1: pleasant but impenetrably professional, offered nothing but practiced cheer. I
Speaker 1: hung up, defeated. I turned to our bank app feeling
Speaker 1: less guilty than before. He had made privy see an abstraction,
Speaker 1: a tool to hide behind. The charges were so regular,
Speaker 1: so thoughtless. Room service, small cocktails, a recurring charge for
Speaker 1: flowers delivered to a name I didn't know, Cattier f
Speaker 1: That was the name listed on one floral receipt thank
Speaker 1: you card included. Part of me wanted to throw the
Speaker 1: phone against the wall. It was almost laughable, the banality
Speaker 1: of it. I wondered if Mark would try to lie
Speaker 1: even when confronted with the hard evidence, if he'd find
Speaker 1: some new avenue of explanation gaslight me one last time,
Speaker 1: or if he had simply been waiting for me to
Speaker 1: catch him. His secrecy didn't feel panicked or even particularly clever.
Speaker 1: It felt like habit routine that had absorbed the edges
Speaker 1: of our former honesty. I looked up at the ceiling,
Speaker 1: then texted Jen for company, desperate not to be alone
Speaker 1: with the confirmation, with the reality that the worst explanation
Speaker 1: wasn't only plausible now it was true. Somehow it still
Speaker 1: stunned me. The next day, Mark's sister, always merrily unfiltered,
Speaker 1: sent me a non committal text, thinking of you let
Speaker 1: me know if you ever need anything. No emoji, no
Speaker 1: exclamation points, the distance, the non answer, the way even
Speaker 1: she had checked out of the storyline. These were as
Speaker 1: damning as the flowers on the bank's statement. I lay
Speaker 1: on my side of our bed that night, my phone
Speaker 1: and his both turned face, and in the morning I
Speaker 1: would prepare, I would finally truly ask for what I needed,
Speaker 1: the truth whole or broken. But for now, for just
Speaker 1: these feverish hours, I let myself sink into the hollowed
Speaker 1: center of our story, suspended in the ache of finally
Speaker 1: undeniably knowing. The morning after I had resolved to confront Mark,
Speaker 1: I woke feeling like I had been fileted open and
Speaker 1: left out in the cold. The covers tangled around me.
Speaker 1: Light filtered in from the window, bruised and gray, gilding
Speaker 1: the edges of the room we'd built over nearly a decade.
Speaker 1: It was early, still, no movement from the street, but
Speaker 1: a distant garbage truck. The usual apartment creaks above and below.
Speaker 1: The other pillow was untouched. Mark had come in late,
Speaker 1: or not at all. His gim bag was gone. Only
Speaker 1: the faintest trace of spice from his new cologne haunted
Speaker 1: the air. I moved through the apartment as if it
Speaker 1: were some one else's boiled the water for coffee, set
Speaker 1: out two mugs from habit, then returned one to the shelf.
Speaker 1: My chest buzzed with caffeine and purpose, and dread down
Speaker 1: the hall. I opened the closet, standing for too long
Speaker 1: among the rows of shirts, the smell of wood and winter,
Speaker 1: and too many careful afternoons in vinted shops. My hand
Speaker 1: hovered over his dark raincoat, the same one from the
Speaker 1: night I had found the wine bar receipt. I almost
Speaker 1: pulled it out, almost checked the pockets again, expecting what
Speaker 1: exactly a confession, another slip of evidence damning or exonerating.
Speaker 1: There was nothing left to find. I dressed, I made
Speaker 1: my hair neat. I composed a dozen versions of what
Speaker 1: I wanted to say, what I needed him to answer.
Speaker 1: Each one shrank in the face of the truth, already
Speaker 1: threading through everything we shared. Mark texted mid morning, brisk
Speaker 1: business like be home after seven back to back calls,
Speaker 1: want anything for dinner, the sort of message he'd used
Speaker 1: to paper over a crack. I didn't answer right away.
Speaker 1: I sat in the entryway, sketch book on my knees,
Speaker 1: phone face up like a paper weight. Each tick of
Speaker 1: the clock amplified the tightness in my chest. By Threegean
Speaker 1: messaged my place is open to night if you need it,
Speaker 1: Love you, no questions. I sent back a half hearted
Speaker 1: heart emoji. Then I silenced my notifications. I went through
Speaker 1: our fridge, lined up leftovers for the week. I couldn't
Speaker 1: stand the idea of talking myself out of the confrontation,
Speaker 1: couldn't trust my own self preservation to keep from blurring
Speaker 1: the truth yet again. As the unfeathered out over the rooftops,
Speaker 1: pale and thin, I tucked the important details a slim
Speaker 1: envelope with the hotel receipts, a few screenshots, the print
Speaker 1: out with cattiers Flower order into a folder and laid
Speaker 1: it on the dining table. I set two glasses down
Speaker 1: next to it, silent punctuation on the coming conversation. When
Speaker 1: Mark finally texted just after seven on my way, I
Speaker 1: didn't reply. The sixty minutes that followed expanded and contracted,
Speaker 1: every glance at the clock snapping something inside me, every
Speaker 1: sound from the hall making my palms sweat. When his
Speaker 1: familiar footsteps started down the corridor, I forced myself not
Speaker 1: to fidget, not to flinch. The key turned The door
Speaker 1: swung open, and Mark walked in, hair, wind blown, suit,
Speaker 1: jacket folded over one arm, plastic takeout bag swinging from
Speaker 1: the other. He kicked the door shut behind him, pausing
Speaker 1: mid stride when he saw me waiting. Ah, you look,
Speaker 1: He stopped. His eyes drifted to the table, the folder,
Speaker 1: the second glass. You okay, I rose, voice pinned steady
Speaker 1: by pure Will we need to talk? Mark? He hesitated,
Speaker 1: dropping the jacket on the arm chair. Sure want to
Speaker 1: eat first or no? I pulled out a chair and
Speaker 1: sat sit down. He did a little slower than usual,
Speaker 1: fussing with his sleeves. All right, you seem intense. I
Speaker 1: leaned forward, voice clear but barely above a whisper. Where
Speaker 1: were you last Thursday night? He grinned, the project client
Speaker 1: voice emerging like a nervous tick. Told you late client dinner,
Speaker 1: then crashed at Dan's. Wasn't worth you bering? I slid
Speaker 1: the folder across the table, except Dan didn't see you,
Speaker 1: and I got a message from book club. They missed you,
Speaker 1: and you weren't at a client dinner. You were at
Speaker 1: the Westbridge Hotel every week. Mark bank statements, ride receipts, flowers,
Speaker 1: Cattier's name on the delivery. His face collapsed in on itself,
Speaker 1: color dropping away. He stared at the pile, not touching it. Jesus, Alanna.
Speaker 1: I watched him try to assemble a story, lips parted,
Speaker 1: but words failing to come. After a moment, he settled
Speaker 1: for head shaking, as if denial could turn the table
Speaker 1: back to normal. Ay, Alanna, please listen. I didn't. It
Speaker 1: wasn't what you think. It started after that big launch failed. Cattia,
Speaker 1: She's on the consulting team. She was there, She understood
Speaker 1: all the work. Stress. It just happened. My jaw clenched
Speaker 1: so tight my teeth ached. How long? He nodded absently,
Speaker 1: eyes flicking side to side. A few months she she
Speaker 1: understood things you you never seemed to want to talk about.
Speaker 1: But I wasn't trying to hurt you. I swear. I
Speaker 1: kept telling myself I'd end it. I just couldn't figure
Speaker 1: out how. I let out a slow, careful breath. You
Speaker 1: lied to every one, to me, to our friends. You
Speaker 1: built your life around covering tracks Mark for months. He
Speaker 1: looked stricken but defensive. Now, arms crossing, shoulders drawn in.
Speaker 1: I know, I know, I hated myself for it, but
Speaker 1: I felt so trapped, like whatever I said or did,
Speaker 1: I was playing a role I couldn't get out of.
Speaker 1: And you, you're always so self sufficient, like you didn't
Speaker 1: need me any more. Rage throbbed in my forehead. So
Speaker 1: you torched what we had. Instead of saying something real,
Speaker 1: you created an entire performance just to avoid telling me
Speaker 1: you were unhappy. He ran a hand through his hair,
Speaker 1: watching me as if searching for forgiveness on credit. I
Speaker 1: didn't want it to mean the end. I thought maybe
Speaker 1: if I could fix myself first, i'd come back and
Speaker 1: it would be fine. I know that makes no sense.
Speaker 1: I shook my head. You don't get to say this
Speaker 1: was just about fixing yourself. The person you are with
Speaker 1: her is still you. The man sitting here, dying hiding
Speaker 1: still you. He pressed, palms to his eyes, elbows braced
Speaker 1: on the table. I'm sorry, Alanna, more than I can
Speaker 1: ever say. Why her? I pressed, refusing to look away.
Speaker 1: He shrugged, defeated. I don't know. She just listened. It
Speaker 1: felt easy. Each word was an intake of poison info,
Speaker 1: I demanded, but wanted to reject. And what now, I asked,
Speaker 1: voice flat. Do you love her. He looked, wounded, as
Speaker 1: if I'd struck him. No, I don't think so. I
Speaker 1: don't even know any more. I wrecked everything without even
Speaker 1: meaning it. I put my head in my hands for
Speaker 1: a moment, the tension in my temples blinding. You have
Speaker 1: to go, Mark, he looked up, voice breaking. Please can't
Speaker 1: we talk one more day? I stood, No, you took
Speaker 1: one more day for months. I want honesty right now.
Speaker 1: This is the only chance you'll get. He nodded, finally defeated. Okay,
Speaker 1: I'll pack a bag, I'll go to dan S. I
Speaker 1: forced myself to stay upright as he vanished down the
Speaker 1: hall to collect a few things. The apartment felt heavy
Speaker 1: with everything that would never return to normal. Yet impossibly,
Speaker 1: some small part of the burden lifted as the truth
Speaker 1: stretched between us in the dying light. We didn't say
Speaker 1: good bye, We didn't hug. We just allowed the void
Speaker 1: to expand, to fill the space, both of us flinching
Speaker 1: from its depth. He closed the door softly. On his
Speaker 1: way out, footsteps echoing down the stairwell. A leash finally
Speaker 1: snapped clean. The apartment sat in silence, holding its breath.
Speaker 1: I called Jen, she answered on the first ring. He's gone,
Speaker 1: I said, voice barely steady. She was already offering to
Speaker 1: come over, but I told her I'd rather be alone,
Speaker 1: at least for tonight. After the call, I texted our landlord,
Speaker 1: letting him know I be handling the least solo, just
Speaker 1: for now, I added, since the finality was still too
Speaker 1: raw to spell out. I stripped Mark's side of the closet,
Speaker 1: folding his shirts with machine like precision, stacking everything by
Speaker 1: the door. My hands moved without instruction, my head empty
Speaker 1: except for the need to keep moving. My phone pinged
Speaker 1: Mark's sister A single message, I'm so so sorry. I
Speaker 1: wish i'd said something. Please let me know if you
Speaker 1: need anything any time. Another message, this one from Lisa,
Speaker 1: simply love you. Alanna here if you want to talk.
Speaker 1: Marisa chimed in with a similar refrain. Each message chipped
Speaker 1: away at the numbness, each an awkward benediction the remains
Speaker 1: of a life I would have to reassemble. Jen brought
Speaker 1: over fresh sheets, shoving take out into my arms before
Speaker 1: leaving quietly. She didn't make a scene or try to
Speaker 1: distract me. By nightfall, Mark's belongings waited for him in
Speaker 1: the foreye, and our mutual world had compressed down to
Speaker 1: a room, A few bags and a vacuum left on
Speaker 1: the living room rug. I finished cleaning around eleven, too
Speaker 1: wired to sleep, body humming with left over adrenaline and
Speaker 1: sudden oppressive exhaustion. The following day arrived indifferent and gray.
Speaker 1: I opened the windows, letting the wind rip through what
Speaker 1: felt like months of stagnant air. Cartons clattered in the kitchen.
Speaker 1: A single coffee mug steamed by the window while I
Speaker 1: sent the last few necessary texts to Mark, to the landlord,
Speaker 1: to my parents, the three hardest words I had ever
Speaker 1: had to assemble. Mark broke my trust. I paused at
Speaker 1: the stripped bed, the hollowness of the room magnified by
Speaker 1: the missing weight beside me. Somewhere downstairs. The mail fell
Speaker 1: through the slot. The world resumed its routines, fresh and unyielding.
Speaker 1: But I was done with routines for now. I packed
Speaker 1: the last of Mark's things into a duffel, set it
Speaker 1: by the door with a post it please pick up
Speaker 1: by Friday. I told myself this was closure. Yet even
Speaker 1: as I swept dust motes dancing in new patterns, I
Speaker 1: felt that acutely sharp ache, loss, humiliation, righteous, fury, freedom,
Speaker 1: in such precise equal parts, it was as though I
Speaker 1: was some one new, even before anything else had really changed.
Speaker 1: As dusk fell, I stood alone, amidst empty shelves and
Speaker 1: the echo of my own voice. I pressed the clean
Speaker 1: sheets on to the bed, smoothing the last wrinkle, the
Speaker 1: silence thrumbing in my sternum. No grand gesture, just a
Speaker 1: series of small, essential movements. Bag by the door, cup
Speaker 1: in the sink lamp. Turned to face the street. I
Speaker 1: sat at the edge of the stripped bed for a
Speaker 1: long time, hands slack on my knees, breathing deeper than
Speaker 1: I had in weeks, night, pressed against the windows, city
Speaker 1: lights flickering on and off beyond the glass. After a while,
Speaker 1: breath steadying, I reached for my old sketch book from
Speaker 1: the credenza, flipping past our old apartment scenes, gallery sketches,
Speaker 1: clipped half finished notes from years ago in the margin.
Speaker 1: I pressed pencil to paper and began to draw, not
Speaker 1: him or us or any familiar place, but the soft
Speaker 1: line of the evening skyline, as it truly was strange, incomplete,
Speaker 1: and somehow astonishingly my own. I drew in outlines and shadows,
Speaker 1: letting my pencil scratch quietly against the paper whole minutes,
Speaker 1: drifted by the city's hum slipping in through the open window.
Speaker 1: The chill was unfamiliar, a by product of the weather,
Speaker 1: but also of this new, unsettling space between the furniture,
Speaker 1: every piece of which still bore some imprint of us.
Speaker 1: Maybe tomorrow I would pack away the photographs on the bookshelf,
Speaker 1: the ones where Mark's hands sat gently on my shoulder
Speaker 1: at a friend's wedding, or curled in mine on a
Speaker 1: wind swept beach. For now, I let them be. I
Speaker 1: wasn't ready for the sharp snap of that ABSENCEI measured
Speaker 1: and deliberate broke the stillness. Someone thumped on the wall downstairs,
Speaker 1: shoes squeaking on the stairwell. For an irrational moment, a
Speaker 1: surge of panic passed through me. What if Mark came
Speaker 1: back to night, demanded to talk again, insisted on chasing closure.
Speaker 1: I imagined him standing in the entryway, wet, umbrella in hand,
Speaker 1: eyes already rehearsed for apology or plea. I tried to
Speaker 1: picture what I would say, and discovered I didn't have
Speaker 1: the energy for another confrontation, not to night, maybe not ever. Instead,
Speaker 1: I laid my sketch book on the night stand, padding
Speaker 1: softly into the kitchen for tea. I didn't want Hans
Speaker 1: busy for the sake of having something to do. There
Speaker 1: was the lone mug mark always ribbed me about using
Speaker 1: who keeps drinking out of the one with the chip
Speaker 1: solid ordinary A touch of constancy in the swirl of loss.
Speaker 1: The picture in the mirror stunned me. My face streaked
Speaker 1: under the eyes, but steady. A kind of stillness emanated
Speaker 1: from my skin, as if my mudscles had remembered the
Speaker 1: lessons of hundreds of small indignities of years spent negotiating
Speaker 1: peace between my wants and another's presence. An unexpected defiance surfaced.
Speaker 1: I hadn't vanished. I was still here. Through the thin
Speaker 1: apartment walls, muffled laughter from another unit, trickled in the
Speaker 1: kind of laughter that can only come from oblivious comfort,
Speaker 1: an argument about pizza toppings, or a retelling of some
Speaker 1: inside joke. I envied their ease, but also, for the
Speaker 1: first time in weeks, I didn't wish to trade places.
Speaker 1: I began to gather up the detritus of the day.
Speaker 1: A pair of shoes kicked hastily under the table, a
Speaker 1: scarf snagged on the back of a chair, coffee spoons
Speaker 1: balanced on the sink's rim. Each object seemed to hold
Speaker 1: some last fragment of normalcy. I arranged the stack of
Speaker 1: marks things for pickup, folding the shirt sleeves a final time,
Speaker 1: tucking his favorite pen into the pocket of a winter coat.
Speaker 1: The physical act was less dramatic than I had. No
Speaker 1: dramatic hurling of boxes, no rending of fabric, just the slow,
Speaker 1: mechanical unwinding of a shared life. For a while, I
Speaker 1: stared out at the street, watching people move beneath the
Speaker 1: flickering lamplight. An elderly man struggling with a grocery bag,
Speaker 1: a trio of students wrestling with a stack of pizza boxes,
Speaker 1: a couple leaning into each other beneath a battered umbrella.
Speaker 1: Life was unbroken by the rupture upstairs. Their world spun on.
Speaker 1: The ache changed shape from sharp and urgent to something
Speaker 1: duller A steady pressure behind my breastbone. It was less
Speaker 1: an open wound, now more the kind of bruise that
Speaker 1: blooms days after an accidental bump, A pain distant enough
Speaker 1: to observe, close enough to feel. I wondered if the
Speaker 1: city would remember us, or if, like the rain, our
Speaker 1: story would simply slip away, replaced by new ones written
Speaker 1: in the same rooms, with different hands and different laughter.
Speaker 1: I wanted distraction. I tried television, but every plotlin seemed
Speaker 1: to point back inward. I tried reading, but the words
Speaker 1: blurred unreasonably. I considered reaching for my phone, scrolling for
Speaker 1: gen or Lisa, or anyone who might still inhabit the
Speaker 1: perimeter of my life, but I stopped myself to night.
Speaker 1: I would live without commentary or interjections, no chorus of concern,
Speaker 1: no reminders that in time wounds close over, letting myself
Speaker 1: feel it was the only honest act left. Restlessness overtook me.
Speaker 1: I paced from window to kitchen, from kitchen to hall,
Speaker 1: pausing at the entry to Mark's old office. Papers were
Speaker 1: scattered over the desk, his not mine, a collage of invoices,
Speaker 1: half done sketches for a project I didn't recognize, doodled
Speaker 1: phone numbers, a list of restaurants on the back cover
Speaker 1: of a note book. I rifled through them, not searching
Speaker 1: for more evidence, only feeling the urge to catalog the
Speaker 1: details of this man I thought I'd known inside out.
Speaker 1: I stopped at a receipt for dinner expensive two entrees,
Speaker 1: issued on a wend day night three months ago. The
Speaker 1: date was familiar, a night he'd claimed to be working late.
Speaker 1: I felt the beginnings of anger, but it faded into
Speaker 1: numbness almost instantly. Facts were only facts now, they couldn't
Speaker 1: be used to pull me backward. In the bathroom, I
Speaker 1: noticed our toothbrushes. The pairing that once felt like a
Speaker 1: symbol of togetherness separated now. I threw his in the
Speaker 1: trash without ceremony. It made no sound. Outside. A siren wailed,
Speaker 1: and then, as if by q, the city fell back
Speaker 1: into gentle quiet. I turned out the lights, climbing into
Speaker 1: the maide bed alone for the first real time. The
Speaker 1: sheets still smelled of lavender and detergent. The pillow edges crisp.
Speaker 1: I lay there, listening, wondering if this strange clarity would last,
Speaker 1: or if it were simply the body's survival mode. One
Speaker 1: foot forward, then another, until forward is just what you
Speaker 1: do at dawn. Without the weight of Mark's presence dictating
Speaker 1: my day, I found myself awake inert, suspended in the
Speaker 1: gray hush before sunrise. The usual ritual texting him about breakfast,
Speaker 1: bringing him a mug while he showered was unnecessary. My
Speaker 1: phone lay face down, silent. The hours inched by I
Speaker 1: soorted business receipts, scheduling my own client meetings, checked design
Speaker 1: files for deadlines. Nothing had changed except everything the world
Speaker 1: outside hadn't noticed yet. My own was, somehow both expansive
Speaker 1: and glacially slow. Mark's sister, true to her word, texted
Speaker 1: again afternoon, thinking of you, if you ever want to talk,
Speaker 1: I'm here, no pressure at all. I typed and erased
Speaker 1: several responses before sending thank you. I'll reach out when
Speaker 1: I can. I did appreciate it in a distant way.
Speaker 1: Some connections would survive the fracture, even if most of
Speaker 1: our old world would not. There were practicalities to manage.
Speaker 1: The landlord called back, formal and brisk, agreeing to switch
Speaker 1: the least paperwork to my name alone. My parents phoned voices,
Speaker 1: tinged with concern and restraint, and I forced myself to
Speaker 1: explain only the bare minimum. There's nothing to fix, he
Speaker 1: broke trust. I'll figure out the details in my chest.
Speaker 1: The steadiness remained. It occurred to me faintly that I
Speaker 1: was already in motion towards something outside the tight orbit
Speaker 1: of Mark. In the late afternoon, a text arrived from
Speaker 1: Mark himself. It was brief, as if every word scraped
Speaker 1: thin from overuse. I'll pick up my things to morrow evening.
Speaker 1: I'm truly sorry, Alanna, for all of it. I stared
Speaker 1: at the two sentences, feeling nothing but longing for the
Speaker 1: day when they would be irrelevant. I didn't reply. There
Speaker 1: was nothing left to clarify. By evening, with the sun
Speaker 1: training an amber stripe of light across the wooden floor,
Speaker 1: I assembled the familiar armature of comfort, a bowl of soup,
Speaker 1: my softest throat, a mug freshly washed, the old playlist
Speaker 1: from our earliest days on low in the background, not
Speaker 1: for nostalgia, but a reminder of how many lives fit
Speaker 1: within these four walls. From the utility room, I brought
Speaker 1: out the battered vacuum cleaner, trailing the light along corners
Speaker 1: and base boards, erasing the dust of a season I
Speaker 1: never chose. In the middle of sweeping, I stopped standing there,
Speaker 1: with the low hum of the city outside and the
Speaker 1: quiet indoors, the balance now mine to disrupt or keep
Speaker 1: time unspooled, without demand, no partner to account for a
Speaker 1: just around temper myself against A surge of guilt followed.
Speaker 1: Shouldn't grief feel more all consuming? Shouldn't rage choke out
Speaker 1: everything else? Yet here I was holding both the devastation
Speaker 1: and the flicker of relief, equal and simultaneous. In the
Speaker 1: kitchen drawer, my hand brushed against a list mark had
Speaker 1: scrawled months earlier. Things to get for the next book club,
Speaker 1: stir sticks, ice cube trays, fancy olives, new rug. It
Speaker 1: was almost offensively ordinary. The deception ran deeper than the
Speaker 1: hotel rooms and late night absences. It was embedded right
Speaker 1: here in the domestic pulse of shared anticipation. My breath
Speaker 1: kept catching on the same thought. I will not be
Speaker 1: the person who was lied to, not forever. The clock
Speaker 1: ticked steadily past midnight, the city's energy dimmed, replaced by
Speaker 1: the hush of emptier streets. I realized I hadn't phoned
Speaker 1: any one, hadn't reached for those life lines I'd once
Speaker 1: depended on. The silence wasn't absence, It was a reprieve,
Speaker 1: snapping the last light off. I stood a moment in
Speaker 1: the dark living room, letting the silhouette of the furniture,
Speaker 1: half remembered from nights past, settle over me. The sound
Speaker 1: of my own breath became reassurance. There was nothing left
Speaker 1: to anticipate to night. In those final moments before sleep,
Speaker 1: a sleep unencumbered by the uneasy cadence of a second
Speaker 1: body's movements, I curled on to my side, a single
Speaker 1: sob breaking free. It was raw, noiseless, not entirely mournful.
Speaker 1: When it passed, what remained was the bizarre, insistent clarity
Speaker 1: of being alone and still alive. The next afternoon, steady
Speaker 1: rain returned, tracing tiny rivers down the glass. I watched
Speaker 1: the water pattern across the window, watching the sharp corners
Speaker 1: of the outside world soften and dissolve. Mark arrived near dusk,
Speaker 1: texting only here from the curb. I left his duffel
Speaker 1: by the door, never looking through the peep hole, unwilling
Speaker 1: to see his face or say another word. The bag
Speaker 1: was gone within minutes afterward. Alone again, I allowed myself
Speaker 1: a pause at the entryway, scanning over the pared down room,
Speaker 1: the new hollow in the closet, the single empty mug
Speaker 1: on the sink, not emptiness exactly, not any more potential,
Speaker 1: a cautious sense of latitude, if not liberty. I finished
Speaker 1: my tea at the island, not rushing any more, not
Speaker 1: waiting for some step to follow, not imagining the sound
Speaker 1: of another key in the door. As the rain slackened outside,
Speaker 1: the night, air dense and cool, I tugged open the
Speaker 1: glass balcony door, the one Mark always insisted we keep
Speaker 1: closed because of drafts. I breathed in the scent of
Speaker 1: wet pavement and distant rosemary from the boxes on our ledge,
Speaker 1: letting the noise and light of the city fill my senses.
Speaker 1: I picked up my sketch book, flipping past the drawings
Speaker 1: that charted our old life, sketches of Mark napping under
Speaker 1: the window, party guests raised in toast, gentle swoops of
Speaker 1: line outlining weekend mornings, now consigned to the past. I
Speaker 1: turned to a blank page. For a while, I studied
Speaker 1: the whiteness, uncertain. Then I pressed the pencil down, drawing
Speaker 1: not what had been lost, but the ambiguous, promising horizon
Speaker 1: outside my window, a jagged skyline, patchwork and unnameable, my beginning,
Speaker 1: singular and ash in uncertain light. And that is the end,
Speaker 1: thank you for listening and I will see you in
Speaker 1: the next one.