The Friday Table

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1:02thunder and from deadlines. Except tonight it's just me and a pair of empty chairs. The flicker of candles and the tight-to-press tables has always struck me as romantic, but now I just watch the little flames gutter, waiting for their partners, like I am. Maron my wife called 20 minutes ago. I could tell she was pacing. There's an edge in her voice lately, a tightness that makes everything she says sound a little rehearsed. Baby I'm so sorry, I know, I promise I'd rather be there. We had this total meltdown with the new client, I'd I'm still at the office, and there's just albieges, can I make it up to you tomorrow? I tried to joke. Should I bring you some food, you'll be starving my midnight. She was quick, almost snapping. No. No seriously, don't come all the way, I already grabbed something from the kitchen, the whole team's eating together while we try to fix this, I'll just see you at home, okay? She pauses, then a quiet finality of the disconnecting call. I stared, wondering why my chest hurt as much as my jaw, clumped out around the woes I should've said. Now, sitting under the paint of silhouettes of Ethiopian dance that was swirling along the wall, I listened to the raindrome against the tin awning and tried to swallow at the

2:03bad taste in my mouth. My phone's green stays cold and blank on the table. The injure cools, and out creeps him with every minute she's not here. There's something about the way she wouldn't let me visit the sudden edge that urgent refusal that didn't fit. I can't help myself, my thoughts unravel despite wanting to trust her. Merron never used to sound like someone was something to hide. It wasn't always like this. We started coming here every Friday after we moved into our apartment for blocks away, back before deadlines and product launches and dropped to the lives we meant to build. Herids was our anchor, a date neither of us ever missed, no matter how the week went. God, we used to laugh. Merron would order for me with exaggerated authority, grinning as she tested out new and harrick phrases the owner, Tesset, had taught her. She'd joke about running away to Ethiopia just for the barber. You're getting kid-fo, she'd say, tapping the menu as if it was a birth rate. Once, I asked her why she dissolved into giggles when she said a day in a nature test fate, only to find out she'd been greeting him with, how's your goat, instead of hello. At home, we were quite easy. Dinner's couple together from scattered groceries shared over a worn wooden counters.

3:06Even inside Bassai, she hunched over her laptop, editing a copy, me sketching outside projects for my job. Sometimes we didn't speak for Ayers, but the air was warm. We'd curl up to the great British Bake-Off and she'd make up Mary Berry insults for my store-bought cookers. Our friends said we would rely a blow always together, each other's shadows. Merron's boundaries with work were running drug. She'd once cancelled a high stakes video call with a venture capital firm because we're derisivation at Yeds. Clients come and go, she said, wrapping her knuckles on the table, but in gears forever. That's how it was until maybe a month ago. The first Friday she didn't show, she texted a rushed excuse, flooded W's last last minute crisis, can we range-check? She left a brief voice message instead of calling. I remember how her words started, the sounds around her oddly muffled but not quiet, almost like the echo of a hallway, not an office. Was it music? Maybe voices I didn't recognize. I told myself it was just a bad connection. I laughed it off, ordered her favorite sandwiches to cheer her up and chalked up the no-show to bad luck. Who could begrudge someone a miserable work week?

4:09The world spun on. Then came the next Friday. I sent her a dumb selfie with test face she'll be here any minute, keep the kitchen open, but her reply felt oddly canned. Bit product launch, total disaster, I'm so sorry next week I swear. Her voice sounded brittle, almost hollow. I thought, weren't they just talking about the launch for August? Was that still months away? The optimism in her emails to friends lately didn't line up with this panic. After that, she started coming home later. At first she blamed her boss Angela, queen of last minute emails. Angela's piling on work, expecting miracles, they'll work from bed when I get back. Then her phone habits changed. She left it face down during dinner, tapping out cryptic responses to slack messages, switching off notifications when I worked in. One night, I caught her closing her laptop's green gist as I set mugs on the table. The hush that followed made my skin prickle, she forced a smile and said, I was just reading something boring, nothing fun, I promise. It felt like she was convincing herself as much as me. Friday came again to night and here I am, more alone than I have been in years.

5:11I can't shake the feeling that I'm waiting for the punchline to juke I would like. At home, the silence feels heavier than the rain. Maron's absentech goes in our apartment to coat on the hook, her mug and touched on the counter. I line up the left of his leg offerings and scroll for a week's worth of texts. They're all logistics. Helmlight, who don't wait up, love you. Sometimes with a period, sometimes not. The doubt gnaws. I tried to picture her in her office, hunched over a stale sandwich, read room from stress. But the sharpness of her already ate with the team, the anxiety in her voice, blazed over and over. Why was she defensive? Was I pushing? Or was she hiding something she wasn't ready to admit? Saturday morning, I'm nose and cold coffee when she finally comes home. She looks exhausted, hair tassled. She tries a one smile. Sorry, we ended up grabbing dinner as a team went to that new sushi place in Beltown. It got late, I crashed in an uproom after, it didn't want to drive home tired. I nod. Who always would you? She freezes for a beach just long enough. Though, you know Angel, a cowl, a couple of the new folks, it was nice, except cowl

6:14order deal again and freaked everyone out. She laughs, but it sounds like a forced air. That's word, I say, I thought Angel was allergic to shellfish. Marron blinks, last again. Oh God, yeah, right, maybe it was just tempura, you know her. I pretend to accept her story, but inside, something is crumbling. The details don't add up the tone, the look in her eyes, the way she grabs her phone as soon as it buzzes from the counter. That night, I noticed her smile at her scream while we're folding laundry, rapid fire thumbs dancing over WhatsApp. She glances my way, pocketing her phone. Just work stuff, she mutters, shelving her underwear with careless haste. Angel is panicking about next week. She ducks into the closet before I can ask more. Later, a try being open suggests picking up take-out from her ears and driving it over to my aunt's office on Friday make it a surprise. She stiffens, almost drops her phone. Oh babe, really, please don't, it's too wild in there, I'll eat with the team we're all ordering pizza or something to enjoy your Friday, okay, I'll just see you at home. The pattern sets in.

7:14Each week now, there's a reason we can't share our routine. My tech start to get wordier, asking her if there's a light at the end of the tunnel if she needs help, or if we should plan a real night off. To replies, a smiley face, a thumbs up, a couple of soon vests. If I didn't know her calendar, I'd almost be convinced. But her stories start to fray at the edges. Saturday, she claims there was a big team breakfast at work scrambled, exit someone's desk to celebrate making it through the week. Later, I scroll through our shared Google Calendar and find an out-of-office alert for late arrival, called W's lash client, 10-11-30M. I pause. There's no mention of an in-person breakfast, no sign of a group celebration. I don't say anything I'm not sure what I'd be accusing her of, not at. But now my eyes catch every little inconsistency like a snag in my sleeve. The following week, I drive past her office on a woman not really planning to, but the lights are on, the parking lot slick with rain. It's late, nearly 8-30M. Her silver ghetto is parked three spaces from the door. There is an unfamiliar dark sedan next to it. Reception is locked up.

8:15I'm gonna appear through the glass, I see nothing but a fan flicker of hallway lights and the reflection of my own room face. The door to her floor was open with my visit to pass the overnight security must have changed the code. I linger in a car, feeling vaguely ridiculous, debating whether to text her. In the end, I don't. She's always insisted we respect work boundaries, after all. But the next morning I ask, how many people were working late sounded deserted when I called. She shrugged. Just me and Kyle, he was polishing off a deck Angela asked for, I nearly fell asleep. As she speaks, there's a trace of something on her scarf a smell that doesn't belong to her. Her perfume is familiar, but beneath it very faint is a shopper edge after she may be something woody and masculine. I reach for the scoff frowny. Did you get new perfume? She looks up, startled, then chuckles. Ew, Kyle spilled coffee near me, I probably reek of Starbucks. She laughs, but there's a tremor in it. Night's drag on thick was static. Her affection has started to turn rigid, measured. Even when she hugs me, I feel distanced her head on my shoulder, her hands stiff at my

9:16waist. Her eyes always fled into ward her phone, checking for new messages. One morning, as she showers, I hear her phone buzz and glance over. A single hot emoji from an unsaved number flashes, then vanishes as his steam wet fingerprint swipes it away. She grins when she sees me, but there is a strange quality about it. A test things propose a quick trip to Bainbridge next weekend, a break. She looks at me like a cornered animal, then immediately seems relieved. Babe, I can't. Rachel has got that demo next Monday, can we just nod, please, another weekend. I nod inside, the answer curdles. Hey, it's Cole Swindell. After I give everything I've got to land a perfect vocal, I usually take five before jumping into the next track. And I've learned exactly how to recharge in that time. Some folks grab coffee, I hit a quick good lookspin. Next thing you know, the break is just as fun as land down the track. A better break makes for a better take. Need a break? Less chumble. No purchase necessary, BGW Group void were prohibited by law, 21 plus TNC supply, sponsored

10:18by Chamba Casino. Things reach a new level the night I finally cross a line I never imagined I'd approach. Maron is in the shower, humming some half forgotten pop song, and her laptop sits open on the kitchen table. It's unlocked a habit from when we banter, trading you two blinks back and forth. But tonight, some primitive urge takes over. I hesitate then find myself drawn forward by gravity. Her browser is still open. The tabs are deceptively normal, work dash words, a trellaborde. But her search history is fresher. Nestled between a copy templates and recipe blogs, I see phrases, romantic restaurants near me, I have to keep a secret relationship, a Seattle cocktail bars with private booths. My fingers tremble. On her desktop, a folder labeled receipts is password protected. It's like I'm buried amidst other folders for spring campaign and quarterly report. It's recent modified two days ago. My heart leaps as I click, then recalls at the password prompt. Instead, I ease open her gmail. There it is confirmation for dinner reservation at Bosnian Atlas for two people on the past two Fridays.

11:19Her full name views for booking, nothing else given, but the date's match. I check again, every Miss Friday, a matching confirmed the email, then a brief reply to A.K.I.L.M. about meeting at Atlas, usual time. My skin crawls. I want a scream to rage to break something. But there's no name in the reservation, nothing strictly, that couldn't be business. No evidence just a shadow. Maybe Kyle really was there for a work dinner. Maybe the rest of the team left early. Maybe. I close everything, erase my footprints, slide the laptop back. My pulse hammer is deafening. I can't sleep that night, minecalling at the seams of his stories, turning over every moment we chaired in the last month, searching for what I missed. The next week, days drug passed as if someone's press pause on everything but the doubt. Naron's behavior is careful now too careful. She offers me tiny rituals like I'm a child, coffee, backrobs, a smile. Her phone never leaves her hand, every vibration is a secret. I wait for her to slip. There is day she comes home smelling like the cologne again. I say, I thought you hated synthetic perfumes and she blinks, shakes her head.

12:23Just sat too close to someone in the bus. Friday I pretend to head out for errands in the late afternoon, then double back and drive toward Barstain's Atlas, parking a block away is dusk falls. I sit in the drizzle, shivering, watching office workers pour out into thumping ubers, until my breath fogs on the glass. My hands sweat as I scroll through Twitter feeds, waiting. They arrive together at 715, not knowing I'm there. Naron is laughing in a way I haven't seen in weeks, her arm brushing the sleeve of a toll figure with sandy hair-kyle, I realize the direct report she's always called to just a sweet kid. His smile is familiar from photos at her office parties. They slip into the dark warmth of the bar, her hand-ghosting over his shoulder. There's no one else with them. From my car, I count them in its. They must be waiting for others, I tell myself. A second group will surely join them. But the minute slide by, and nobody else appears. Through the fogged window, I can make out snippets, his laugh, her hand on his wrist, the leaner when she whispers something that makes him blush. It's unmistakable the intimacy, the low burning charge and air that used to belong to

13:23us. The sharecock hells, played a fruit, her eyes tracking his mouth rather than her phone. I watch her checker's green ones probably telling me she's heads down with the teen, while her hand-slide across the table, finding his. When he lifts it and kisses her knuckles, the shell of denial cracks for good. I sink into my seat frozen. I raise my phone half in a trance and snap a photo. I don't look at it, can't. My hands shake. I think I might throw up. Still, I wait in my car until their dinner is over until they slip out the door and into the darks down I recognize from the office parking lot. Her laugh drifts out with the wet wind. They don't see me. Home is a morselia. I stand in the kitchen, staring at the photo on my phone, the reservation email is queued up in her at box. I wait for her to return, mine blank but for the relentless hammer of what comes next. She comes in past midnight, curved fragrant with that same alien glow, a blush in her cheek she doesn't bother to hide. She gives me a quick peck, force, almost guilty. Long night, Angela was a nightmare. My heart feels scoured raw. I nod robotic.

14:24I'm going to shower, she adds, already vanishing down the hall. I listen to the water as if beats down the lies, one by one. I know now truly what I have to do but actually doing it, waiting for her return, feels like lifting a boulder with numb hands. I sit at the kitchen table, arranging the evidence, breaths coming short and icy. The confrontation looms, I can barely stand under the weight. But I wait letting the moments drag on. I want to see if she'll say anything, if guilt will finally break through her wall of secrecy tonight before I show her how thoroughly I know. My week is a patchwork of hope and pain. I watch her move about her apartment, going through the routines we build to get a coffee at dishes, planning groceries for a weekend that feels purely theoretical. I tend to meet her distance with warmth, to pull her back, but the walls between us have grown thick and opaque. Every now and then, I almost let myself believe nothing is wrong. The way she hums when she shows Edimame, the way her hand lingers a little too long over her phone, the way she avoids my eyes when she says, next week will be better, I promise. But then I see Kyle's name pop up on her phone screen one morning.

15:25She doesn't notice me watching it's just a flash, a soft buzz, a notification she quickly watts away. Maybe it's a slack message, maybe just a reminder for a meeting. But the look on her faces too soft, too engarded, the kind of look people save for someone who truly sees them. I try to ask her gently about work, about the project she's been buried under. She grows defensive, recites a laundry list of tasks, each more pressing than the last. I press just a little, can we have one night for us this week, and she snaps for us high. I told you it's crunch time, please, I just can't talk about this anymore. That night, I hear the shower running as soon as it is someone, face a glow with a private happiness I haven't seen for months. I wait up for her, but she drifts into bed long after midnight, smelling faintly of someone else's world. I wonder if this is all there is now a life where every moment is measured, wait, found wanting. Where Friday night means her laughter belongs to someone else, where work emergencies are the cipher for a secret life. I drift sleepless, rehearsing the next confrontation in my head, tracing the shape of my own heartbreak through the shadows on our bedroom ceiling.

16:25But I know I'm still waiting, still unsure if I'll ever fully believe it, until I see her face when the truth finally lands between us. Still, I wait for a crack something small, something too slippery for her to notice, but there. I grow hungry for proof as much as I dread it. The following Thursday, we sit in rush-ire on the way home from a friend's housewarming. Our friend's apartment is full of chaotic laughter, trampled jute rugs, and disposable wine cups. Marin is quieter than usual, spending more time checking her phone in the hallway than chatting in the kitchen. Heather, my best friend since college, nudges me at one point and says, everything okay, she seems far away. I shake my head and paste on the smile. Marin forks, when she calls for the lift, is bright but tight. She isn't listening as the costways for ballad traffic, creating her phone as if it holds the only real conversation in her life. We pull up at our building and I try to leave an arm through her ears and overrefects. She sighs steps. I'm going to hop on a call with Angela. Go up first. I'll be a while. She doesn't kiss me goodbye. She doesn't look at me. I walk through the glass lobby alone, habit splintering.

17:27Inside, the light's all low, amber and soft in the couch, where we used to call up to Heather. For a moment, I listen through the entryway to the muted sound of her voice outside a low, intimate, the soft hash of someone talking close, not business-like. Paul's is, laughter, then a wordless ban long enough that I imagine she's just listening, smiling at whoever is on the other end. I check the time. The call lasts 20 minutes. When Maron finally comes up, her cheeks are flushed beneath the drizzle. Sorry, had to take that one, she says not elaborating. She checks her phone again as she takes off her shoes. The rest of the night, I feel like an interloper in my own home. She's attentive, almost exaggeratedly so asks about my day, offers to make tea, rubs my back for show while her eyes flick to her phone, where a blue dot tells me new messages are waiting just out of sight. She starts mentioning upcoming off-sites with her team at odd times. I'll be late again Friday, she says the next morning, fidgeting with her necklace at the kitchen table. Angela's pushing us to do these dumb brainstorming drinks. I might crash at office again, don't wait up. She says a breezyly daring me to question it.

18:27I try to keep my voice steady. Do you want me to bring you the apartment keys, just in case? I could pop by after dinner. Her face closes. No, that's fine. I have everything. It'll be late. I'll just come home when I'm done, honestly, or maybe sleep there. Her tone brooks no argument. Friday comes like a bruise. I work late, hunched in my office, but can hardly concentrate. By 9.30, I'm keyed up white, anxious, scrolling old group photos from work pod is on my phone, searching for what? Some expression, some clue. I finally text her a 10. Tyler Reddick here from 2311 Racing. Victory Lane? Yeah, it's even better with Chamba by my side. Race to chambacacino.com, let's Chamba. Don't purchase necessary. VTW Group. Void we're prohibited by law. CTNC's. 21 plus. No. Hope you're off-site going okay. Love you. A long wait. Then, 15 minutes later, sorry, didn't see this, while here, but almost done, love you too. exclamation marks, but not an answer formed. Later I hear her let herself in much after midnight.

19:28I'm awake, though I faint sleep. She moves quietly, shuffling in the dark. I catch her, outlined against the whole light, watching me for a moment her face complicated before she heads to the bathroom without a word. The pillow still smells faintly like her, floral and warm, but I turn my face away. Assarisk. Saturday morning, I go through the motions. I fry eggs slice avocado, lay out coffee, trying to summon normalcy. Marin shuffles in, hair tangled, full and already in her palm. What time did you get in? I ask, making it casual. She shrugs. Late, lost truck of time. Was it just you and Angela? I probe. She smiles how farted. And Kyle, he's really stepped up lately. She pours coffee her back to me. We ended up finishing the deck after they left. A pause. Didn't you say the deadline was next week? She turns. Angela's paranoid, wanted it early. Her smile now is sharp, defensive. Later as I hand her the eggs of her toast, a throne vibrates with a string of emojis. She teps rapidly, ignoring her food.

20:30I hear a small breathless laugh the sound I remember from our earless dates, private and electric. Who's that? She glances up, fluster. It's work. Don't worry about it. She eats standing in the size of eyes flicking between the table and her screen. When she goes to shower, I check her calendar again. A deck due Monday is bolted and highlighted, I note with a winking face. Scheduled by it burns Kyle Lamm. I try to join her in the steam wrap bathroom, feigning the need to brush my teeth, but something about her posture makes me hesitate. She keeps her back turned, rinses suds from her hair, humming a song she used to play for years ago, before work became her new world. Astros. Astros says his vision is corrosive that it makes you someone you don't want to be. They're right. The next week, I do things I never thought I'd do, I check our router logs for new devices. This Kyle's name, an iPhone, showing up in our Wi-Fi history once on a Monday I was out late. The explanation is easy to reach for, maybe she loaned in the password for a quick work visit. But my memory is blank how I was working that night, she'd said she was alone and bored.

21:31I watched the slack messages load in over her shoulder sometimes. The previews are mostly business links, numbers, FYI deaths. The one drags my gaze, can't wait for Friday if she sweats her way. Friday. Always Friday. I decide to follow her, not in some film more way, but because I need to see it to kill the loss of my hope. This time, she leaves right at six, hair carefully done, the errands she saves for special nights catching the weak winter light. Don't wait up, she says again. Angela might even join for a round or two, who knows. The lie is practice but not convincing. I trail at a careful distance, hard of eyes, brains applying nightmare scenarios with each turn of her car. She parks on second avenue, steps into bar-sand atlas with a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder. Ten minutes later, Kyle, laughing at something on his phone, saddles up to the entrance. They meet inside. I slip to a vantage under a dripping port co-cross the street. Through the deep window, I see them, meron smiling, leaning in, Kyle reaching across the table, his fingers brushing hers. It's all there in the little gestures the way she laughs too hard, the way he touches

22:34her wrist, a two of them press close in their booth. It's worse than I imagined intimate practice, like a ritual they've been perfecting for weeks or months. I try to tell myself that I don't know every private language this year that I could be misreading things, but the evidence is a litany her blush, his hand at the small of her back when she stands to go to the restroom, the tilt of her chin as she listens only to him. My hands are cold. I fumble from my phone, feeling like some girl, and take a picture. It's blurry with rain and city light, but it tells the story. I don't recognize the look on her face. She used to reserve that version of herself for me. Their dinner goes late. I give up pretending I'm not a voio and count the time until they finally stand to get her close, her hand buried in the cook of his arm. They leave side by side, her laughter audible even through the glass. I walk in the opposite direction, the plastic take-up bag I brought from here is still swinging in my numb hand, unitent and absurd. All that next week I see everything through the film of what I've witnessed. Even when Maron tries making her famous lentil stew, sneaking up behind me to brush my hair away from my neck I stiffen, remembering the way Kyle touched her.

23:37I recall without meaning to, inventing headaches projects excuses for early nights. She looks at me with concern once, actually pauses, and for a second I sense the old Maron. Are we okay? She asks and characteristically searching. Lately seem far. I should say it then. I should ask directly, but I can't get the words up past the ballast in my chest. Just work, I say echoing back her excuse. I'm tired. She hesitates as if she wants to say more, but her phone pings in her hand and she's drawn back the moment closed. I check her laptop after she leaves for the grocery store. The receipts folder has been erased, replaced by a town stamp shortcut named Taxi. All dinner reservation confirmation emails are deleted, but in the trash folder I find fragments, reservation for two, boss St Atlas, a looking forward to our usual table and chillingly a pin thread with Kyle on her work email labelled brainstorm slash personal. Inside attachments, hotel booking PDF private and modulate notes about our little hideaway. I close it before I can remore or shamed Nalsus.

24:38It isn't even shock anymore, just hollow, mechanical pain. Maron returns with groceries, arms loaded, cheeks ready. She finds me at the table. Lost in thought, she jokes. I muster a smile and set to unpacking, hands shaking as I watch her unpack especially to chocolates ones I used to buy for Valentine's Day, now cheap currency for someone else. Asterisk. The next few days blow together, colored by suspicion so thick I barely recognize myself. Every time Maron leaves, I take inventory how long she's gone, what she wears, the route her hair takes from bunter loose waves. She disappears for work walks with her phone pressed to her face. Once, outside the apartment, I see her on a cold that looks too personal her voice out, laughter open, the kind she never shares with office clients. That night, as we eat, I decide to try again. Remember when we used to plan our little Friday adventures? I say, there is a new jazz club opening, maybe we could go, try something different. Her reaction is raw panic quickly suppressed. I next week, maybe, this one is crazy, I have that training, Angel is flying in.

25:39I'm non. Of course, I say quietly and she doesn't see the way my knuckles blanch in the fork. She offers to pour wine, tries too hard to bridge the gap. I watch her handshake, just once, when she lifts her glass. Later, in bed, her leg flops over mine and all sign of comfort, now feeling foreign, choreographed. We lie in a dark, not touching, not truly. She says, you know I love you, right? I swallow. Yeah, if I know. The word ring hollow between us. I sense her watching me as if she wants to confess, or to reach for me, but instead she turns away, scrolling her phone under the blanket, green glowing like a warning. Astres. A week passes, then another, each Friday wound reopening. I stop asking where she's going. I stop offering to cook, to plan to hub. We live side by side, each performing our roles, have only ever present third and odd win-ling partnership. One afternoon, as I get home from work, I'll be in auditing now I find her in the balcony, whispering into her phone. When she spots me, she flushes and fumbles to hang up. Just Angelette, she says, not meeting my eye.

26:42Her fingers worry the collar of her blouse, her foot tapping a frantic coat on the tile. Did you want to go out tonight? I ask the last echo of hoping my voice. She shakes her head, already withdrawing. I promise the team I'd be around for the late sprint, I'll just stay at the office. Right, of course. She disappears for ire's. This time, I don't wait for her to return. Don't check to see what time she comes home. When I wake, the other side of the bed is cold, the silence perfect. Astres. I start to morn her even as she walks the holes of our place. Her laughter is ring fence or hope spend elsewhere. Even when we shared in her, when we passed the salt and trade, what looked like normal glances, nothing touches the core anymore. At work, and distracted, snappish. My coworker, Lena, corners me at lunch. He seam off, is everything okay at home? I fumble for words, shake my head. It just hired, Maron's working a lot. She always did, but I hope you two are taking care of each other. Don't lose that. Her words sting. How do I explain that losing each other is no longer a risk, but a fact?

27:43Still, each night, I wait some child as part-lining for her to break. To take my hand to come clean, to share the burden. But she's become expert at holding all her secrets close. How to have fun, anytime, anywhere. Step one, go to chumbacaceno.com. Chumbacaceno.com. Got it. Step two, collect your welcome bonus. Come to papa, welcome bonus. Step three, play hundreds of casino-style games for free. That's a lot of games, all for free. Step four, unleash your excitement. Chimacaceno has been delivering thrills for over a decade. So claim your free welcome bonus now and live the chumbacaceno.com. No purchase necessary VGW group void for prohibited by law, 21-plus terms and conditions apply. The final Friday arrives like to close in a window. That morning, Maron is almost reading the nervous energy buzzing offer as she slits into her best coat. Make it meticulously done, lips painted a color I haven't seen since our three-year anniversary. Wish me luck, she says, winking, already halfway out the door. I tell her good luck, but in my chest I mourn. That night, after seeing them together the hand-hold, the kiss, the tender mischief in

28:45the wake-out tucks her hair behind her rear, and afraid of the public eye return home containing a fury so deep in my posomy. I range the evidence on the kitchen table, line up the emails, the photo, every shed belief in a neat row, preparing for the moment there will be nowhere left to hide. I think, as I stack the last printout, about all the Friday nights that led to this the inside jukes, their forever promises, the warmth of rituals. I wonder, for a fleeting second, if she'll apologize, or if she'll just mourn the loss of a secret life more than the life we built together. I hear the elevator come to rest on our floor, her footsteps in the whole breezy light carrying a version of Maron a no longerner. I sit. My heart pounds. It's almost time. The elevator doors hush open, Maron walks in, hair a little wind bling from the streets, cheeks high with color, and I see all the small details the careful lipstick, the press coat, her scarf, windtight, damped from drizzle. She stops dead in the entryway when she sees me at the table, hunched a spread of paper and my phone set out in a cold order between us. She blinks, flinching at the sight, hesitates, then does the too bright smile she uses on strangers. Hey, she says, trying for normal.

29:46She stands there as if waiting for something to happen, and I feel this slow motion tension grip the room her poised on the threshold, my chest pounding so hard I'm almost dizzy. Maron, I say, and it comes out stutter than I expect. Sit down. Her mouth tugs into a frown. What's all this? Her eyes dart from the printout to my phone to the edge of the kitchen counter, then finally, reluctantly, settle back on my face. Just what I say, it's it. She drops her bag by the bench, the thunk of it against a wood too loud. Her hands nervously set her phone face down on the table habit, now before she hesitantly takes the chair opposite me. Her knuckles widen around the edge. I want you to look at these. I nudged the printouts towards her, not trusting myself to touch them again. The air feels brittle, like the next wrong word my chat or everything. She shifts her eyes down, her face stiff and unreadable, and fixes on the first photograph, her and Kyle, hands entwined in a candlelight of boss ain't atlas. The printed dinner confirmations are laid beneath. For a second she just stares. Then her entire body seems to jolt tension radiating out from her shoulders.

30:49There's a silence so thick I can hear the apartment creak the hum of the fridge, the faint hiss of wind at the window. She says nothing, just pushes the photos lightly away with the tip of a finger, as if it might burn. What is this chisper's voice barely there, but her jaw is set. He told me, I say, keeping my hands planted to the table so I don't start shaking. She bites her lip, bulks at the evidence, and then like a switch flipping her whole posture turns rigidly defensive. Those are work dinners brainstorming, Jesus, is this what? You're following me now? Are you reading my emails? Heat rises in my face. Are you really going to sit there and pretend, Miron? I saw you two together, saw you with? The memory stings, I force it out. It's not a work dinner, that's not brainstorming. She looks me full in the face then, panic flickering, just beneath defiance. You don't understand, it's not it's complicated, Kyle and I there's nothing, not relate just what we got closer in the product launch, things blowed. Work got messy. Kissing him was messy work, I say, voice newly breaking. My hands curl. How long has this been going on?

31:49She shakes her head, tears filling her eyes, but she still doesn't look away. It started weeks ago, Kyle know it wasn't supposed to mean anything, I just do. Her voice nags, breath trembles. Which day late, it was just talking at first, I felt lost here, lately, every friday felt so lonely, I started looking forward to seeing him, that's all it was at first. I have to close my eyes for a moment. My chest feels like it might split open. You could have talked to me, you could have said something was wrong. She covers her face. I know, I know, I didn't mean for it to get out of hand, I swear. He made me feel seen God, I'm not blaming you. Don't die say. Don't make this my fault. We hover there, breathing into the crackling air, the whole weight of what's been lost all, and physical. She starts to reach for my hand, then stops herself, I'll stop, she says. Please, I'll tell him it's over, I love you, it was a mistake, Helena didn't think I'd cross, please don't leave, we can fix it. I funch at her words, every place slicing a long nose already raw. You've been lying for months, Marron, to me, to yourself, every single friday.

32:50She blurtes, I was scared, scared if I told you, you'd hate me, I kept telling myself I'd end it, and then every week, it was just easy not to. She starts to saw up ugly and racking. The sound of it drives me to my feet, stumbling back from the table, away from her grief, away from the pathetic tablo of evidence. I grab at the kitchen counter, scanning the room for anything I need, and realize with a pang how much of our life has tangled up in things coffee-mogs, a fudger on the fridge, a damned bag from me I'd still waiting where I dropped it last week, never touched. Marron pushes up from her chair, body shaking with tears, and tries to follow me as I move toward the bedroom. Please, just don't go, I'll do anything, we can, we can fix this, I promise. In pressure, all the days of suspicion and dread, the hundreds of excuses, the fervent of texts, crashed down in a single and relenting wave. My voice comes out cracked and final. I can't be here, I say. Not tonight, maybe not ever. I pull a spare overnight bag from the closet and start jumping in the minimum a change of clothes, phone charger, toothbrush. My hands shake, clumsy on the zipper. Marron follows trying to block the hallway with her body.

33:52I'm begging you, she says. Please please please, we're still us, tell me what you want, I'll do it, I'll block him right now, I'll call and end up please, just talk to me. She tries to grab my hand, I pull away. It doesn't matter what you say to him now, you lied, week after week. She crumbles in the doorway, face wet. I love you, she gasps, pressing her palms to her face. Don't you see, I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, this was the worst mistake, you're my home. I sling the bag over my shoulder. If that were true, you wouldn't have done this. There's no air left in the room. Just us, goes now exhausted and ruined. In my chest, something aches, but it already feels a million miles away. For a moment, neither of us moves. I can feel her hands hovering near my arm, desperate to touch, to undo. My own hands go tight around the back, knuckles wide. But don't call me, I whisper. Don't text, I need I need to leave, please let me leave. She stumbles back, sobbing, face blotch and broken. I edge past her, each careful step, a kind of farewell, moving through the spaces we built together, past the kitchen and the little shelf of cookbooks we argued over at the

34:55thrift shop, I've passed the living room where our future was supposed to live. I pressed the elevator button, not looking back. The doors open with a chirp too cheerful for any of this. I step in, letting the walls close between us, her cross fading is the mechanical sigh of the elevator's moves at the noise. The lobby silent. I crossed the marble, call there on my cheeks, my back heavy in my hand. I slipped past the part of plants, the empty night God's desk, feeling every step in my bones. At the glass doors, I paused, outside, the cities washed clean by rain, old neon reflected in puddles along the curb, the wet sea out of air biting my skin. I step out into the night, not stopping to check my phone, not slowing to check if she's following. My heart drums and an steady cohe, something between grief and freedom, the ache of everything left behind carried in one cheap overnight back. As I reached the curb, headlights from a passing bus mud to my shadow on the slick pavement. I pull my jacket tight, breathe in hard to the world colder, sharper, already unfamiliar. Inside the elevator glass, as the doors close one last time, I caught my own reflection, pale drawn, eyes older by years in the space of a single night.

35:57What I saw was no version of me I ever expected to be, but it was the only truth in left. I walk south, away from my building, hands jammed into my jacket pockets, rain beating and sticking my head to my temple. I don't have a plan my phone buzzes and I don't look, no every vibration is her. One foot in front of the other, down the slick sidewalk, sneak a squelching with water and exhaustion and shock. Summer or block away, I find myself beneath an awning. My body soaked in the weird way cold gets under your skin and just stays. I stand there, blinking into puddle light, back I've tied against me, and tried to make sense of the new shape of my world or at least my own skin in it. Everything is noise rain in the gutter's cars hissing by, my pulse. A stare into the street, phone finally up in my hand, thinking maybe it would hurt less to see I'm sorry set in digital grey than to hear her crying and gasping through a door I have no power to close. Three messages from her, then six, all stacked and red. Please, who are you? I messed up, I know I did, I'm begging you, please they just tell me you're safe, they don't do this. There's one miss call of the voice message notification, robbing red. I swipe my phone dock again, unable to breathe through the itch in my chest.

37:01The bus reaches up, door sighing, a few late straddles glancing at me like I'm just street furniture, not a person may collapse. The city is alive and moving. I lean back against the cold stone, try to hold my feet to keep me upright. Rat leaves plaster my shoes and the thought comes absurdly, that I should find a hotel, but the idea of lying on foreign sheets, lights off, just staring at my ornacles, feels unbearable. 10 minutes, maybe 20. Enough for my teeth to chatter. No more messages come in maybe marrons given up or maybe she's collapsed on the kitchen floor. Either way, whatever soft thing once pulled me back is shredded, lose ends trailing behind me. Eventually I move get back to motion, rubbers all sticking and dragging. I pull up my hood and walk until my legs vanish, until my focus is only one slap aside walk at a time, one block, then another. The sharpest of guilt and grief is a kind of clarity, my old reflex is to turn home to solve. I'm cut loose, in a city bigger and empty than I knew. I duck into 24-hour diner as the clockhead is toward midnight and order a coffee I don't want just to buy space.

38:01The waitress scans me, see something bleak in my eyes, doesn't say much. The mug lands on for myker and the heat in my palms is a shock. My reflection in the smeared window isn't familiar, I almost don't recognize the sag of my shoulders, the raw line of my throat, the muffled, stunned shape of my mouth. My bike clunks to the bench and it toothbrush change of shirt charger. That's all I managed to grab that and every bit of meaningless hope I'd been carrying for too long. I look at my phone again, more texts, each one, shortest to cato, come home, talk to me, please just answer. His pain in every word, and yet a part of me ugly, maybe cowardly, wants her to feel it, the hurt mirrored back at her for once. I stare at the steam from the mug and finally listen to her voicemail, her words shredded by tears, I know you hate me, I get it, you can't possibly hate me as much as I hate myself, please, I need you, please come home, if I'll make this right, I'll do anything, just pick up. Her voice cracks on that last plea. The silence after is deeper and quiet, like something vital has left the world. The phone trembles in my hand. They almost call her back, my thumb hovering years of automatic habit-brand.

39:03I want to hear her, I want to scream, I want to beg for some senior story than this one, but I let the phone go dark, thumb pulling away like I've touched a live wire. The coffee is cold. I go to the bathroom splash my face stare at myself. My eyes are rim red, lashes heavy with rain, but the look they're mine. Not his. Not the man who lets someone else slip sideways out of his life without seeing it. The man who finally, if belatedly, stops while I'm lies. It's too late for trains, the city bus schedule pinch down to a trickle, and anyway, there's no one I want to see. I text Heather, panic giving way to neat, but stop before sanding. What could I even say? That everything changed in one hour, and I don't know who I am, or who she is, or what will ever be safe again. Instead I book a cheap hotel a few blocks away just a line of numbers and digits filling in boxes, a slice of life flat and neutral clean white sheets I'll never feel at home in. I switch there in the rain, numb the bill off regarding my state with careful detachment. Inside the room the lights are too bright. I sat my bag by the bed, pull off my wet shoes, and sit, staring at my hands.

40:06I wonder what she's doing right now pacing, crying, throwing things, blasting through calls to try to find me. The loot plays out in my head, vengeful and hollow, and always unfinished. Minutes pass then Ires. My phone vibrates now and then one call, two calls, then silence. And two a,m, just as sleep starts to threaten, another call comes, then a being of a voicemail. I can't pick up, not now, not with the threat that I'll collapse or promise something I can't keep. I listen to my breathing in a dark hotel, and for one's galling moment, let the grief wash in and filtered. The next morning breaks grey, city lights masked up by damp clouds. My head throbs like a swollen wassold. I chat my messages, scroll through hookascade of apologies, see that she sent another at dawn, I'll tell him it's over, I swear, I want you, I choose us, please tell me where you are. I stare at that line, I choose us and the day's truth of it is that she already made her choice over and over every secret Friday. The lie is simply that there's even an us left to choose. I try to eat a granola bar. It feels like chewing rubber. The sound of housekeeping in the hallway is the only thing rooting me in the present.

41:08I pull on my clean jar, it perush my teeth with the extra hotel size two, and avoid my own eyes in the street mirror. I look up the next available air, something cheap and longer, and start putting together options. A summer sublet in Green Lake. A friend's ex-rooming posting in Capitol Hill. Each message feels like a betrayal, but I know I would go back until I can face the wreckage with clear eyes. Venue and they still have an answer, but she hasn't stopped. One message, then two, then nothing for an iron, then another, I'll wait for you, please. The repetition is running on fumes she's desperate, but so am I, just a different kind. I step out into the street, worldwide and aggressively alive. Buses, runners, delivery trucks, all barrel pass my grief like it's nothing. I move them through the daylight, an invisible ghost in a crowd of people and touched by the worst night of my life. By one, I realize I need to go back. Not home, but to retrieve the rest of what I need, the things that are mine, the scraps that are not entangled with the ruins of us. I text her at last, fingers rigid, I'm coming to get a few things, please don't be there. There is no reply, but the read receipt flash is almost at once.

42:11The trip up the block is like climbing into the heart of a storm. The elevator shines for four, the same hasht hallway with the time plant still wilting by the door. I unlock with my own set of keys she hasn't changed the code yet. The silence inside is enormous, expectant. Her scarf has come from the hook. There's a scroll note on the kitchen island, take whatever you want, I won't come back until you say. The apartment is changed, somehow, in less than a night hemptier, yes, but also wounded. The fridge still hums. The living room smells like rain and mound shampoo and some trace of last night's panic. I open the bedroom closet and see the spaces where her work clothes used to hang, now clump together at one side as if trying to fill a big void. I pack three more shirts, two books, my backup laptop, headphones, a handful of receipts and spare keys. I grab my mug, my jacket, and a photo top to be hand the spice rack when I forgot existed, both of us in black tie, four years ago, laughing, her lips took a perfect land. My handshake so hard I almost drop it. I leave everything else drawers of anniversary cards, old city maps she loved, a recipe book from years that she slipped from Tessue last Christmas.

43:14The rest is hers or at least not mine, not anymore. The last thing I do is feed the balcony plant a habit from before all of this, one last pointless act. I water it, set down the bottle and stand in the little bit of cool air, city spread out beyond, trying to believe in a time when this was a place I could relax, safe, known. Phone buzzes. This time it's not marijuana, but Heather, the tick short, can I bring you food? I don't reply. The urge to speak to them the jagged truth out is visceral. Heather's relief too, in the silence, in the absence of more lives from either of us. I lock upside my key into the mailbox for good measure, jolt is kiving with the weight. The walk down the hall is endless, like a parade of old memories our first clumsy move in, pizza stains on the rope, arguments over without to hang by the door. All of it left behind. Ack on the street, the rain has stopped, clouds bruised and valvety, city smells dense and real. My bag is heavier this time. I run the block, muscle memory steering me, any would banira old favourites. There's nothing left to do but move forward, one step, then another, the details of ending

44:14settling into my bones. In the hotel lobby, for a recent light to pale over plastic plants. I drop my bag in my room, close the door behind me a real final click this time, no possibility of her coming in after. I shove the window open for fresh air that smells of hope and exhaust, collapse onto the strange bed, my heart is shattered, messed the still beats. I lie there, numb, silent, no more running, just existing. No more rituals, no more girded dinners. That's me, alone, but honest at last. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is the skyline out the window, city lights blurry with rain, my own face reflected in the glass someone broken, but finally real. And that is the end. Thank you for listening, and I will see you in the next one. Hey, it's Cole Swendell. After I give everything I've got to land a perfect vocal, I usually take five before jumping into the next track, and I've learned exactly how to recharge in that time.

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