Divorce in Cold Water
Language: en
Ever since I caught Wyatt cheating, our homecoming ritual had become a grim performance of penance. The second he stepped through the door, I would pin him against the foyer wall, strip him down, and douse him in high-grade medical antiseptic. I sprayed it everywhere—his hands, his chest, and especially his crotch—the sharp, sterile sting of isopropyl alcohol acting as a temporary barrier against the filth I knew he brought home. Wyatt, drowning in guilt, usually let me do it. He’d stand there with bloodshot eyes, a gentle, broken look on his face, whispering for me to stop, telling me he…