For days, I’ve watched Manman from a distance. She’s different, radiant. I suspect she’s pleased with Misye Pontellier, whom she often frequents to pose for his paintings. I wallow in misery, jealous of her delight. She doesn’t deserve happiness while I’m miserable.
This morning she enters the kitchen wearing a stunning indigo dress Misye Pontellier bought for her to pose for his art. She struts around the kitchen, showing off the dress. Beaming, she whirls back upstairs, never questioning the scarf I’ve worn since the attack or the faded bruise on my face. Is it possible she hasn’t heard about the r**e? Did the girls not tell her? It’s possible, given she’s never here lately, but with Misye Pontellier at his art studio. I can’t imagine her being so uncaring.
When I retire for the night,
