As he squeezed by her into the shower, Meg’s husband gave her a playful slap on the ass.
She dried off in the adjoining bedroom, and his phone buzzed on the nightstand. By the time she picked it up, it had already gone to voicemail. She tapped the screen.
A woman’s voice said, “Yes, the same hotel tomorrow. Love you. Can’t wait.” It was from a young work colleague of Ted’s.
The anniversary roses he’d given Meg stared from the bureau. She heard him singing off-key in the shower: a song they’d danced to at their wedding reception thirty years before.