I stumble upon my husband inside my best friend on what is supposed to be our matrimonial bed. Laughter. Laughter escapes my throat. It ricochets off the white walls we painted together, off the Scandinavian decor we DIY-ed off Pinterest, off their naked limbs, her sneering eyes, and smashes into my face.
I carry the shame dripping down to my toes to the kitchen. Gulp a bottle of Coke and spread spoonfuls of mayonnaise on bread. Delete my gym registration and many intermittent fastings. Ignore my obssessive-calorie-calculating brain. Forget that her body reminds me of what mine has forgotten to be.
Some sad reality in that. Nice job.