Till Death, But Not Together

On the flight to London, I saw her and knew. She was the woman who, eight years ago on my wedding eve, slipped into my silk gown and my drunk fiancé Alistair's bed. Now she sat just a few rows ahead. Through the seat gap, I heard her laugh with a companion. “Tell me more—how amazing is this mystery man? Worth flying across the world for?” Her voice turned sweet. “So amazing… I think of him every day. He says he’s never forgotten how bright my eyes were.” “But he’s married. Should you really…?” She cut in, smug. “The one unloved is the other woman. That marriage is an empty shell. I’ve always been the one in his heart.” I looked away, smiling coldly. A leopard never changes its spots. After landing, our paths kept crossing. In a convenience store, she leaned by a shelf, on the phone—her earlier triumph replaced with a playful pout. “So clingy… I know you miss me on your birthday. A few hours without service and you blow up my phone.”