The waiter brought me soup. And a folded note. I picked up my spoon and ignored the paper. The boy grinned. I motioned him away.
He went. And I picked up the paper.
There were three words scrawled in a familiar hand. In spite of myself, I laughed.
I walked into my house and followed the line of discarded clothes to my big white bed. He sprawled there, on the duvet, dark, hairy and dangerous.
“Should’ve made you leave the stupid key.”
And that was all I had breath for.
I guess divorce is on the back burner. For now…