The Day I Met His Wife

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She looked at me like I was dressed in rags,
despite her country club money curating my Chanel.
She knew my name,
from his secret sighs,
and she knew my breasts,
from the photos she had pretended not to find.
I thought I should pity her,
with my Sunday school values,
but still,
I smirked at the softened scorn in her sallow cheeks,
that I knew I had a stake in.
Victorious,
velvet,
vindictive,
I made a show of all the things he wouldn’t give her,
and the things she used to give to him,
and the things that I had shown him.
Tough crowd.
She wouldn’t speak,
she only stared,
and as I stared back,
through the expensive shades her pain had purchased,
I couldn’t see the callous claws he’d described,
and pity strode towards us,
with his mistress, regret.

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