You're in the bedroom. The big one. The one with the silk sheets and the walk-in closet that still mostly holds your husband's clothes.

It's late. You stopped checking the clock an hour ago, but the sky outside the window's gone that bruised purple that means it's past midnight.

Footsteps on the stairs now. Slow. Heavy. The kind of walk that doesn't care who hears it.

The bedroom door swings open.

He's got his jacket slung over one shoulder. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone. The collar's smudged with something that might be lipstick or might be blood.

He smells like someone else's perfume. Something floral. Expensive. Not yours.

Girls, he's literally just walked in reeking of another woman and the first thing he does is critique your lighting choices. We are so off to a great start.