The Masked Stripper is my Wife.
The attendant flinched and scurried away, and the harshness in Rosie’s voice echoed between us, another reminder that the girl we grew up with no longer lived in this version of her.
The attendant had just called her Mrs, Is Rosie married? And she didn’t tell me, her supposed best friend? Instinctively, I glanced at her hand, searching for a ring, but there was nothing there. No band, no mark. Was the attendant mistaken, or was Rosie hiding something?
“You got married?” I asked.