The man I had an affair with was the marriage counselor my husband paid a fortune to bring us together-14
Winter of Shattered Trust
Days crawled. A slug sliding on ice. Work filled daylight—editing words on screen. Words didn't lie. Home to the small apartment. Tiny kitchen, simple new cookware. Boiled noodles. Steam rising. Washed the bowl. Water flowed warm over skin. Night brought the unfamiliar ceiling. Insomnia returned. Images flickered: betrayal. The file title. Lucas’s sigh. David’s despair. Silent reels in my mind. My chest still seized. Cold needles piercing. Trust lay in fragments. A gaping void. Winds howled through. This winter promised length. Survivable only day by day. Through work. A bowl of hot noodles. Cold water’s jolt. Each solitary, quiet dawn.
Rough Comfort
Christmas neared. Gaudy cheer filled streets. I entered a humble knick-knack shop. Scarves, hats, gloves crammed shelves. A deep grey wool scarf caught my eye. Sale tag. Texture undeniably coarse. Nothing like David’s cashmere. I bought it. With my own money. Coin by coin. Exiting, cold wind slapped my face. I wrapped the new scarf. Rough wool scratched my neck. Warmth seeped in. A deep breath. Cold air tasted of dust. Real. This coarse, cheap scarf. My choice. My purchase. It wouldn't betray me.
The Rejected Manuscript
The editor returned my draft. Red ink bled across margins. "Core theme vague. Emotionally hollow. Lacks authentic resonance." The critique gouged the page. I stared. Fingers chilled. Writing others’ stories felt easy. My own? Barren. The betrayal had bled me dry. The void within still echoed. Nothing grew yet on trust's rubble. I crumpled the pages. Hurled them into the bin. They landed with a dull thud.
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Days crawled. A slug sliding on ice. Work filled daylight—editing words on screen. Words didn't lie. Home to the small apartment. Tiny kitchen, simple new cookware. Boiled noodles. Steam rising. Washed the bowl. Water flowed warm over skin. Night brought the unfamiliar ceiling. Insomnia returned. Images flickered: betrayal. The file title. Lucas’s sigh. David’s despair. Silent reels in my mind. My chest still seized. Cold needles piercing. Trust lay in fragments. A gaping void. Winds howled through. This winter promised length. Survivable only day by day. Through work. A bowl of hot noodles. Cold water’s jolt. Each solitary, quiet dawn.
Rough Comfort
Christmas neared. Gaudy cheer filled streets. I entered a humble knick-knack shop. Scarves, hats, gloves crammed shelves. A deep grey wool scarf caught my eye. Sale tag. Texture undeniably coarse. Nothing like David’s cashmere. I bought it. With my own money. Coin by coin. Exiting, cold wind slapped my face. I wrapped the new scarf. Rough wool scratched my neck. Warmth seeped in. A deep breath. Cold air tasted of dust. Real. This coarse, cheap scarf. My choice. My purchase. It wouldn't betray me.
The Rejected Manuscript
The editor returned my draft. Red ink bled across margins. "Core theme vague. Emotionally hollow. Lacks authentic resonance." The critique gouged the page. I stared. Fingers chilled. Writing others’ stories felt easy. My own? Barren. The betrayal had bled me dry. The void within still echoed. Nothing grew yet on trust's rubble. I crumpled the pages. Hurled them into the bin. They landed with a dull thud.
NEXT >>
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