Digital Leftovers

The spinach stuck between Marcus's teeth should have been my first clue. We were at that corporate gala, his hand possessive on my lower back, introducing me to his colleagues as "the woman who keeps me sane." I'd smiled, carefully not mentioning how he'd left me alone five nights that week, always with vague explanations about mergers and acquisitions.

Now I'm running through the park at midnight, Buster—our rescue mutt—lunging at his leash, breath clouding in the November chill. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don't check it. I already know what I'll find.

Marcus's iPhone had been sitting on the kitchen counter this morning, screen unlocked. I'd only meant to check the weather. Instead, I found the encrypted messages. Coordinates. Dead drops. Code words. My husband of three years wasn't a corporate consultant. He was a spy, selling secrets to whoever paid best.

The worst part wasn't the deception. It was the banality of it. The spinach wilting in the refrigerator. The coffee mug still stained with his lipstick. The way he'd asked about my day, kissed my forehead, completely disassociated from the man who brokered in classified information.

Buster pulls me toward a bench, and I sink onto it, chest heaving. I'm not running anymore—I'm fleeing. The life I thought I built was constructed on lies as thin as the papery skins of the garlic cloves I'd minced for dinner that evening.

My phone buzzes again. A message from Marcus: "Everything okay? You didn't come home."

I stare at the words, remembering how he'd looked that night at the gala—satisfied, successful, completely sincere. The spinach in his teeth. The hand on my back. The performance of devotion.

Buster whines, nudging my hand with his wet nose. At least one of them loves me without conditions.

I type back: "Fine. Just needed some air."

Then I delete my browsing history. Encrypt my own messages. Start planning my exit.

The spy game, I've learned, is played by everyone eventually.