|Photo by Justin James.|
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I read your texts," she said shamefully handing him the phone. She could barely say the words out loud.
Text: "Good morning." (8:30AM)
His eyes peered up from the phone. He was caught, but for the life of him, couldn't figure out how. He was careful, wasn't he? Had she seen them out together? Did one of his friends tell her? How? How could she have known?
"Honey," he said patronizingly, "I don't know what you're talking about." Liars are Shakespearean actors. They have to be. But no seed of doubt could be planted here. Beth's stomach told the truth. She knew it instinctually, the way one knows that a cold is coming on. There was no doubt. It was a truth that no conversation could shake.
Rarely do we find lipstick on collars anymore. Andrew had different restaurants for Beth and his mistress. He was precise, exacting, and careful. During his daily purging of text messages, he ignored Cali's innocuous salutations. He said good morning to the doorman.
There are few we wake up thinking about. We roll out of bed, reach for our phones, and wonder how they're doing. There's intimacy in a good morning. Beth knew it. Cali knew it. Now Andrew does.