My Husband of Seven Years Says I’m His Ex-Wife
When my husband, Kevin, and I were at our favorite exclusive restaurant, he ordered a T-bone steak and told the waiter with practiced ease, "The usual, and no arugula in the side salad."
I paused, then gently nudged his elbow.
"Honey, did you forget? Arugula is my favorite."
Kevin's body tensed, and he quickly corrected himself.
I even teased him, asking if he was so tired lately that his memory was starting to go.
A week later, I came back to the restaurant alone to unwind, only to overhear the young woman at the next table waving to the waiter with a smile.
"The T-bone again, and no arugula in the salad. Just put it on my husband's tab."
"The account number is 8993."
My knife and fork clattered against the bone china plate.
That string of numbers was my husband's private phone number.
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