Dear Anna, 
I was the perfect wife. 
You were his whore.
You plotted against me with the devil, himself.
Will God let you repent for your sin?
I WON’T.  

ONE
“Are you okay, miss?”

“Huh?” I turn my attention to the old man standing three feet from me. The smell of rain mixing with asphalt rises and clogs my lungs. My shirt clings to my body from the assault of raindrops. I push my wet hair back with the hand that’s not holding a shopping bag.

“Are you okay, miss?” the stranger repeats. “We saw that you were standing here and we, my wife and I —” he points back toward his van where a worried woman sits staring out the window at me— “wanted to check on you.” His smile is a gentle reminder of a time back when strangers didn’t just pass by without a kind word. 

“Yes. Sorry, I thought I saw someone I know.” Embarrassment constricts my chest.

He follows the direction of my eyes. “That couple in there?” He enquires, as he is involved now in solving my dilemma.

I wish he’d leave. “No, they’ve already walked away.” I turn my head again to find my vehicle. “Thank you, though.”

“Sure thing, honey. Take it easy.” He bids me farewell as he walks back to join his wife in their minivan. The rain exposes his body’s hunchback form.

“You, too.” I rush to my Mercedes, senses now returning. I feel the coldness of the weather stain my skin, but it’s not what penetrates my bones and makes my blood retreat into frozen icicles.

I stare back at the restaurant, pushing my wiper blades to their limit to clear the scene. There before me is my worst fear. Even with my vision blurred by the weather, I still see my husband of ten years dining with a woman who looks like more than just a business associate as he smooths a stray hair away from her face.

My eyes betray me as I watch him kiss the lady on the lips after they place their order with the waitress. There’s familiarity in the curve of her face and the way she holds herself—the angle of her chin and the dip at the end of it. I’ve seen her before. She flicks her hair away, revealing her profile.

Anna. 

I’m great with names. They stick with me instantaneously upon meeting a person. Anna is the secretary whose voice floods my ears whenever I call John’s office. She’s the perky blonde behind the desk whenever I drop something off for him when he is in a business meeting. Now she is the one leaning across the table in rapt attention as John, my husband, regales her with a story.

You got to keep a man interested, Medeia, or he’ll stray.

My mother’s mantra comes flooding back in my memory, and I wish I could call her up and tell her all about this. She would know how to fix the damage, but she’s dead — gone not even a year now. I’m left to deal with the ease of John’s hand in Anna’s telling me this isn’t the first time they’ve held onto each other, alone. 

Their fingers aren’t hesitant to be conjoined. Instead, they flock to each other, taking comfort in the familiarity they find hiding in the nooks of each finger. My eyes stay glued to them as they begin to enjoy their meals, close to the window. It’s as if God is on my side and wants them to be observed by me. I take note of how they don’t even care, how John, in particular, doesn’t care. My husband is not concerned with the fact that he is on display in a restaurant window with a woman who is not his wife. Let the people stare. I search for any trace of a guilty conscience, maybe just a glimpse of him looking over his shoulder to survey the restaurant inhabitants, but I look on in vain. What would he say if I told him someone saw him? Would he lie or fess up? If I were anyone else looking in, I would easily assume they were another couple—not a married man and his whore.
I came to the shopping center this afternoon to buy some things for his birthday. Talk about irony. John consumes this day. I had no idea when a familiar sports jacket caught my peripheral vision, that I would find this scene. 

They don’t see me because they’re too busy laughing and staring at each other like fresh new lovers with no problems. They took no notice of the paralyzed figure in the middle of the parking lot, staring after them.  He never looked for my car to make sure the coast was clear. That’s even more terrifying than the act itself — the blatant disregard. 

Inside I am frozen, but at the surface, my skin begins to warm from the heat of my emotions. My throat is suffocating me as it tightens with the force of infidelity being lodged there and refusing to move. My jaw rigidly locks in a solid clench of anger. The adrenaline shifts the icicles in my veins to move. He texted me this morning that he couldn’t meet me for lunch because he had to work through it to catch up. He chose her over me. After what I did for him, this is my payment? He doesn’t even try to hide his whore from the world, but he is sure not to flaunt his wife in it. 

And what am I to make of his mistress? No doubt that she is young. My thirty-six-year-old body can still compete, though. I’m an attractive woman, just as she is. Except we are opposites, clear as day. I don’t have to look hard to find what my husband sees in her over me. Her shiny blonde hair falls in curls around her porcelain face. My flat brown straight hair envelopes my olive skin tone. You can tell she is a bubbly person from the way she is bouncing as she talks to him. I have never been one to bounce. Bubbly is for the secretaries, which is what Anna is. John’s secretary. 

She giggles and touches his arm. What could be so funny? My husband is not a comedic guy. He doesn’t have a sense of humor. He can stretch out a joke for ten minutes, never reaching the punchline. He’s the type of guy who will explain why something is considered funny and ruin the essence of the joke itself. So, what is making Anna laugh? A joke about his wife who doesn’t suspect a thing, perhaps? 

Medeia Moore ─ his dedicated wife that does it all for him. I am everything John needs or wants; I make sure of it. I have done everything to keep John’s attention through the years. Am I the reason that they are giving themselves over to fits of laughter?

I bow my head, peering at my outfit. The rain has soaked me to the bone, but that’s not what makes me look frumpy. Lately, I’ve been choosing comfort over style when I go out during the day, yoga pants instead of hip-hugging jeans that express the curves beneath. The things that I hide from John when he isn’t there. I wouldn’t dare wear this when he is around. I gaze back at Anna, and she’s shimmering in a tight bodice dress that I would consider too risqué for the office, but she wears it with confidence oozing from the scarlet color. 

She’s the woman that unfortunately ends up making the rest of us intimidated and small-feeling. We could arrive as done-up as possible, and she would still knock us down in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her poise allows her to be a knockout in a potato sack bag. 

On our wedding day, I encompassed that very feeling. I was the spitting image of a princess, with my hair curled and makeup better than a supermodel. Ten pounds lighter and much more svelte, and on that day, John stood before God, family, and friends and swore to forsake all others. And since that day, I have worked to remain the perfect image of a rich man’s wife: perfect manicure, expensive clothing, heels, hair maintained. It’s a strict grooming regimen to give me the bonus appearance of money. It’s tiresome, and I do let myself go at times when John isn’t home, but I have tried to take his comments into action. I am the perfect woman for John, straight from his design. So, why am I watching him smile at a blonde with spaghetti sauce on her chin? This whorish pig threatens the stability I have dedicated my life to maintain. I feel my shelter slipping through my fingers.

I felt like a million dollars on the day that I married him, and today, I feel like a cheap penny dropped on the ground and not worthy enough to be picked back up. That’s not fair. I am worth something as well. My pity party gives way to the righteous anger coursing through my body. 
My hand lingers on the door handle, ready to confront him, to tell him what an enormous asshole he is. For all that I have done for him in ten years, that he would dare end it like this. For what I sacrificed to save him. I’ll throw the spaghetti plate in Anna’s face, smear what I imagine is perfect makeup, like her pristine hair. That’s what I’ll do. I yank the handle toward me and jump back into the rain. I feel the adrenaline pumping through me, causing my teeth to chatter.

I stomp my way to the first line of cars, looking left and right to cross. This will be my moment. I can’t believe after what I have sacrificed for John; it hasn’t afforded me fidelity. I’ve turned my whole life over to John’s rules. Why? Then it smacks me in the face like a puddle splashing up from a car. John has all of the money. I came into the marriage with nothing, and that’s why I never strayed from the straight line that I needed to walk to be the perfect wife. If I go in there now and let myself be known, I’ll put myself in a worse position.

I’ll be penniless. John has made it legal, thanks to the prenup, that I will never have any of his money to my name if I leave him. He knows it’s my weakness, coming from such a poor family. It’s what we had constructed our lives to be, a safety net so that I don’t end up like my family, and so that we don’t put ourselves in a position similar to the one ten years ago. Oh, god. I turn and run back to the car, leaning into the steering wheel to hide my tears from shoppers running back to the shelter of their vehicles. I can’t escape my marriage and be better off ─he’s designed it that way. Terror shocks my system. I need to get out of here.

I pull the car out of the parking lot, no longer wanting to risk being seen by my husband. If he notices me here now, it will be my demise instead of my triumph. I wipe the tears off my face. He can’t get away with this. I will find a way out. In the quiet of my car, I promise myself that. It’s not time to confront him, not until I’ve come up with a plan.

 I’ll be damned if I go back to the shack of my childhood without a fight.

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