I hear the sound of our bedroom door and sit on the couch, waiting for her to fully enter the room. As soon as she does, I turn on the lamp. She’s holding her shoes in her hands, trying not to make noise so she wouldn’t wake me.
She’s wearing a pale pink dress, her hair is messy, and her lipstick is completely smeared. It’s spread all over her mouth. My brow furrows.
She doesn’t carry my scent. She carries another man’s.
"Ethan," she whispered, making a tired face. Tired from what? From f*****g another man. "Are you done working?"
"Where were you? With your lover?"
"That’s what I was going to do, but I didn’t find him, so I’ll see him tomorrow," she replied hypocritically. "He does have time for me. He does love me and makes me feel like a woman in his arms."
"You’re a f*****g whore.
