Trading A King For A Pawn
Language: en
My wife brought her male assistant home for a shower. She even let him use her favorite plush bath towel. I sat on the living room sofa, my hands buried in my lap, white-knuckled, forcing the bile back down. I told myself to stay calm, to wait for an explanation that wasn't an insult. Then, she started looking for an ashtray. Jordan walked out of our master bedroom, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, wearing nothing but that towel—the one I’d bought Rachel for our first anniversary. The sight of him, so casual and proprietary in my sanctuary, was the final spark. I stood up, my voice…