//|\\ jill harbeck \\|//
Her
The signs were there, but I tried ignore them, to explain away the obvious. Suddenly he was working late more often than usual, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Every now and then I would catch the edge of a perfume scent, but it was so slight that it slipped through my consciousness before I could grasp it and then it was gone. The balance in our bank account would dip and he would mumble something about treating his buddies to lunch, or how there had been gifts to buy for departing co-workers. A handkerchief would disappear and an excuse would be offered in its place – he had forgotten it in his office, or lost it, or used it to clean something and ruined it. Later on, it would reappear in his drawer, freshly laundered, slipped in among the other handkerchiefs in a furtive moment. He thought I didn’t notice.
It was the lipstick, however, that made my suspicions step out of the shadows and stand squarely in front of me. The smudge on his collar was so faint that it looked as if it would disappear with a small puff of air. But I saw it. It was a most distinctive shade, one I had seen worn by only one woman. Her.
That little swipe of color jerked me past any hesitation I might have had. Enough of the evasion, I thought, it was time to force him to admit the truth. When I heard the car door slam, I posted myself at the door. He knew the instant he saw me that he wasn’t going to get past me, or put anything past me, either. He stood in the doorway, halfway in and halfway out, wanting to avoid what was coming, but knowing it useless to try. I crossed my arms, looked him square in the eye and chortled, “You finally gave in and made up with your mother, didn’t you?