I had imagined this meeting dozens of times.
In some versions, I slapped her.
In others, I asked her whether she enjoyed sleeping with another woman’s husband.
In one particularly satisfying fantasy, I threw a glass of water in her face and walked out.
But when she looked up at me, all I could see was fear.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.
I sat opposite her.
“Tell me everything.”
She pressed her hands together.
“Richard said you knew about me.”
“I knew you existed. I didn’t know the details.”
“He told me you were separated.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“When?”
“Almost a year ago. He said you were still living together because of financial arrangements, but that you slept in separate rooms.”
“We share a bed.”
Her face went pale.
“He said you hadn’t touched each other in years.”
I almost smiled.
“Apparently, we have been living two different marriages.”
