Same as always.

"Be safe out there."

She stood in the doorframe wearing that silk camisole nightgown, smiling at me.

I nodded, turned, and stepped into the elevator.

The moment the doors closed, her smile vanished into the narrowing gap.

I took a cab to the train station and found a corner seat in the waiting hall.

I opened my phone and logged into Messenger.

My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds.

Then I tapped into her social media feed.

Rufus's name wasn't in the recent visitors list. Or rather, he was probably using a burner account I'd never recognize.

But in the activity feed, the latest entry was crystal clear.

Fifteen minutes ago.

Marjorie had planted two cabbages in FarmVille.

Something seized my chest and squeezed, inch by inch, tighter and tighter.

Cold spread from my sternum out to my limbs. Even my fingertips went numb.

I stared at those two virtual cabbages sitting quietly on the screen, bright green and plump, their pixelated leaves almost garish against the plain little plot of farmland. Next to them were the carrots and corn she'd planted, neat rows, clearly tended every day.

She really was obsessed with that game. Never missed a day.

I used to tease her about it. Told her nobody still played browser games from the Stone Age, that it was ancient history.

She'd laugh and swat my arm. You don't get it. It's nostalgic.

Now I understood.

The nostalgia was real.

It just had nothing to do with the game.

I sat there for a while, then left the train station.

I hailed another cab and went back to the apartment complex.

I didn't go upstairs. I found a quiet spot with a clear line of sight to the building entrance and stood there.

About ten minutes later, a black SUV turned the corner at the end of the street.

A license plate I knew by heart.

Rufus's car.

It pulled up beside the entrance. The engine stayed running.

Two or three minutes passed. Then Marjorie came out.

She'd changed into a dress. A white floral sundress I'd never seen before. Her hair was down, draped over her shoulders, and she'd put on light makeup.

She walked with a bounce in her step, pulled open the passenger door, and slid in.

Before the door even closed all the way, they were kissing.

Rufus had one hand on the steering wheel. The other cradled the back of her head.

She leaned into him, half her body pressed against his.

The kiss went on and on.

I watched from roughly a hundred feet away. Every detail, perfectly clear.

A sharp sting flared in my chest, like the jab of a needle.

Then it was gone.

Everything was gone.

No pain. No anger. No grief.

Just emptiness.

And numbness.

After Rufus drove off, I flagged down a cab. Told the driver to follow the black SUV ahead of us, not too close.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Said nothing. Just nodded.

About twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled into the underground parking garage at Galleria Mall.

I got out two spaces behind them and followed at a distance.

Marjorie had her arm looped through Rufus's. They walked side by side, shoulders touching, tilting their heads toward each other now and then to talk.

Something he said made her laugh, her eyes crinkling into little crescents.

I knew that laugh too well.

She used to laugh like that in college.

After we got married, it almost disappeared.

She smiled when she held my arm too, but it was different. That smile was gentle, composed. A wife's smile.

Now, on Rufus's arm, she laughed like a girl.

They went into a clothing store first. Marjorie tried on two outfits, spinning in front of the mirror after each one, turning back to ask Rufus if it looked good.

Rufus was leaning against a nearby rack, hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted to one side.

"Gorgeous. You look gorgeous in everything."

She handed the clothes to the salesgirl and said she'd take both.

Rufus pulled out his phone and scanned the code to pay. Not a second of hesitation.

She smiled, tilting her face up to look at him. There was something in her eyes.

Something that looked a lot like devotion.

I watched from several counters away, and the pain flared again.

Not the sharp kind. A dull ache. Like someone punching me in the chest, slow and steady, over and over.

In all our years of marriage, the number of times we'd gone shopping together could be counted on one hand. Every time I offered to take her, she'd wave me off. Shopping is exhausting. Isn't it nicer to just stay home?

I'd always wanted us to catch a movie together, but she'd say theaters were too loud, that watching on the projector at home was the same thing. So I bought a projector. Then she said she was tired, said maybe another day.

Another day became another week, became never.

I'd always believed she genuinely didn't enjoy shopping. Didn't enjoy movies.

Now I knew.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy them.

She just didn't enjoy them with me.

They left the mall and headed to a steakhouse on the third floor.

I stood in the fire escape at the end of the corridor, watching through the small window in the door.

They sat by the window. Rufus ordered two steaks and a bottle of red wine. When Marjorie cut into her steak, she sliced off a piece and lifted her fork to his lips.

Rufus opened his mouth and took it. He chewed slowly, watching her with a gaze so tender it practically melted.

Then he raised his wine glass and clinked it against hers.

They looked at each other across the table and smiled.

When Marjorie smiled, she tilted her head slightly, and a strand of hair slipped from her shoulder. She reached up with her free hand and tucked it behind her ear.

The motion was slow. Effortless.

And impossibly alluring.

I hadn't seen her do that since we were dating.

Halfway through the meal, Rufus set down his knife and fork.

"Marjorie, how come Edmund's away on business again?"

She laughed, picked up her napkin, dabbed the corner of her mouth, and turned the question back on him.

"Isn't it a good thing he's away?"

Her tone was light, casual, like she was talking about the weather.

Rufus stood up, walked around the table, and sat down beside her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, leaned in, and kissed her on the lips.

The kiss wasn't deep, but it lingered.

"Of course it's a good thing. I wish he traveled every single day. Better yet, a whole year straight."

He paused, then kissed her again.

"That way we could be together every day."

Marjorie didn't push him away. She leaned into him instead, resting her head on his shoulder, one hand settling on his thigh.

The expression on her face was perfectly clear from where I stood.

Contentment.

The kind that comes from being loved. From being wanted.

After dinner, they went downstairs and got in the car.

I hailed another cab and followed.

The car finally stopped in front of a hotel. Not some budget chain. A high-end business hotel.

The two of them walked into the lobby hand in hand.

I trailed behind, watching through the glass of the revolving door as they approached the front desk. Rufus pulled out his ID. The clerk processed them. The whole thing took less than two minutes.

Smooth. Practiced.

Then they turned and walked toward the elevator.

I stood where I was, staring at the motionless floor number above the elevator doors, and I stood there for a long time.

People passed through the lobby around me. Someone glanced my way, but nobody cared who I was.

I walked to the lounge area and sank into one of the sofas.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time.

Then I called Marjorie.

One ring. No answer.

Three rings. No answer.

Seven rings. Still nothing.

On the eleventh ring, she finally picked up.

"Hey, babe?"

Her voice was tight, her breathing unsteady, like she was adjusting something.

I asked her what she was up to.

"Just out shopping. With a girlfriend."

Her tone had already leveled out, carrying that lazy, casual ease she always had when we chatted at home.

"Been at it all day. I'm exhausted."

I didn't call her out. "Where are you shopping?"

"Oh, you know... over by the Galleria."

She laughed. It sounded natural.

The old me would never have caught a single crack.

"My trip got canceled. The client rescheduled last minute." I forced my voice to stay even. "I'm at the train station now. Can you come pick me up?"

Silence on the other end.

About three seconds.

Those three seconds stretched forever.

Long enough for me to hear the gears turning in her head.

Then she spoke, a note of reluctance threading through her voice.

"Oh, I really can't get away right now. My friend and I just sat down to eat."

"Maybe you could grab an Uber..."

That was when a man's voice came through in the background.

"Marjorie, the bath's ready. Come join me."

The line went dead silent.

Four, maybe five seconds passed before she spoke again.

Her voice had dropped low, laced with panic.

"Just take a car home. I'll be back later."

Then she hung up. Fast.

I lowered my phone and sank into the sofa in the hotel lobby, staring at the elevator display frozen on the number eight.

The last flicker of light inside me dimmed.

Faded.

Went out completely.

The lobby was quiet. A piano piece drifted from the speakers, something I didn't recognize. The melody was flat and unhurried, like it was being played by someone who felt nothing at all.

I thought of our wedding day, suddenly and without warning.

The officiant had asked: Marjorie Swanson, do you take Edmund Dickerson to be your lawfully wedded husband?

She'd said, I do.

She'd been looking at me then, and her eyes had light in them.

I believed she meant it in that moment.

I also believed she meant it now, with Rufus.

But a heart is only so big. Fill it with one person, and there's no room left for another.

I sat there for I don't know how long.

Then I took out my phone and sent a message.

Marjorie Swanson.

I want a divorce.