I Listed My Hubby’s “Use” On Thrift App

A woman stood at my door. In her early thirties, she wore a Chanel suit, red-bottom heels, and flawless nails, with a glinting Cartier bracelet on her wrist even beneath the dim gray hallway lights. She held up her phone. The order page from that secondhand site was still open: Item name: emotionally neglectful husband. Price paid: ten cents. Status: pending pickup. She said, "Hi there. I'm here to pick up my trial item." I didn't freeze. I was the one who'd posted that last night, drinking with my best friend, Sally Denson. I even used a grubby side shot of Randal Roper playing video games. I just never thought anyone would actually show up. The woman smiled and handed me an electronic contract. "Queenie Duren, right? The terms are pretty clear: three-month free trial; non-refundable. I'm Peggy Newsom. Starting today, he belongs to me." Before I could say a word, the sound of suitcase wheels rolling across the floor came from behind me. Randal walked out of the bedroom, fully dressed, hair gelled. The suitcase was packed tight. He'd been ready for a while. "You sure about this?" I stood in the doorway, my voice flat. Randal shot me a look, the same look of pure disgust I'd seen for ten years. "I've never been more sure." He brushed past my hand, his voice light and careless. "Queenie, what kind of life did I even have with you? You'd pinch pennies over a thirty-dollar meal. All your clothes are clearance rack crap. I'm sick of that cheap, broke vibe you carry around." Peggy leaned against the doorframe, shifting her Hermès bag to a different arm, logo facing me, of course. Randal grinned at her, eager and greedy. "That's a limited edition, right?" He leaned in to check out the Rolex on Peggy's wrist. "This thing must cost what, two hundred grand?" "You like it? Don't worry, sweetie. I'll get you one, too." Peggy pinched his chin, her expression playful and patronizing. Randal lit up like a puppy. My stomach turned. Over ten years, the longest sentence he ever spoke to me was, "Leave me alone. Get lost." "Randal. Last chance." I looked him in the eye, saying one word at a time. Randal didn't even glance my way. He looked down and pulled off his wedding ring, the one I'd saved three months of my salary to buy. Randal bounced it in his palm for a second, walked into the kitchen, and flipped open the trash can lid. With a tiny sound, the ring landed right on top of leftover food and fruit peels. Randal sneered. "Queenie, don't flatter yourself." He picked up his suitcase and slid his other arm around Peggy's waist like he'd done it a thousand times. Then he said, "You're the one who begged me to leave. Don't come crawling back on your knees later." Peggy laughed and pulled a Porsche key fob out of her pocket. "Randal, from now on, you're all mine." They disappeared down the stairwell, arms wrapped around each other. A second later, the sports car engine roared to life downstairs—then faded into the distance. The neighbor's door cracked open. Nora Xerxes looked at me, her eyes full of pity. Across the hall, Marcus Goode took a drag from his cigarette. "Queenie, your husband is trash. He just ran off with somebody else?" I didn't answer, just closed the door. Randal's slippers were still crooked by the entryway. A ring of dust sat on the shoe cabinet—he'd never once wiped it. The bedroom closet had been torn apart. He'd taken every piece of decent clothing. The dresser drawer hung open. The gold necklace my mother, Lauren Duren, had given me was gone. I walked into the kitchen and lifted the trash can lid. Then I picked that ring out of the rotten vegetable scraps. I wiped it clean, piece by piece, with a tissue, then closed my fist tight around it.