Thunder in the Blood

The lightning illuminated the hotel bar in stroboscopic bursts, casting our betrayal in sharp relief against the wall. I sat three tables away, wearing the orange hat Marcus had bought me in Marrakech—the one he said made me look like a «French spy» from those films he loved.

I wasn't spying. Not technically. I was just...

The woman's hand drifted across his forearm. She was younger, obviously. The kind of young that still believes in soulmates and second chances. Marcus leaned into her touch, his face slack with that particular expression I'd once mistaken for contentment.

Our cat, Buster, hated thunder. At home, he'd be shredded beneath the sofa, yowling at the sky. I should be there, comforting him. Instead, I was watching my husband of fourteen years fall in love with someone who probably didn't know his coffee order, his nightmares, the way he hummed Sinatra when he thought no one could hear.

The bartender caught my eye. I ordered another martini—very dry, very cold, very inappropriate for a Tuesday in November.

Marcus laughed at something she said. His head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable arch of his throat. I'd kissed that throat a thousand times. I'd held it while he cried after his father's funeral. I'd whispered secrets against its skin that I'd never told another living soul.

The storm outside intensified. Rain lashed the windows like accusations.

I'd suspected for months. The late nights. The sudden interest in cryptocurrency. The new cologne. But proof was different from suspicion. Proof was a woman in a red dress and my husband's hand on her knee.

The orange hat felt ridiculous suddenly. Childish.

I paid my tab. Marcus never noticed. He was busy learning someone new.