I wanted to hit you, I could say. I wanted to grab your shiny hair with one hand and smack you with the other; I wanted to dig my thumbs into your eye sockets until your eyeballs popped out, so you could see me for real, as the woman you’ve done this to; I wanted to discover the vilest thing I could do to you then do that, and maybe you might know a little bit about what it feels like.

            
            These are the words I want to say, but can’t. Because the “you” is her, the other woman, and I’m trying to be a bigger person in this. I am the bigger person, I mean, physically, I am bigger than she is, which I’m both proud and ashamed of, and for two totally separate, yet equally selfish reasons; one, I am stronger and could snap her skinny little butt in half, but two, she is ultra-chic-thin and therefore automatically an attractive highlight of all the ways I am inadequate.

            
            I light a cigarette and exhale it into the air of this sidewalk café on this stupidly beautiful day where we have agreed to meet (when I played out some violent fantasy in my head before agreeing), and I wonder how we came to this.

            
            She doesn’t look at me when she says, “You know, I think he was really into you the whole time.”

            
            “Mmm,” I say, because I’m inhaling again when she says this. Since Nathan confessed, I’ve picked up smoking, which he always hated and I always wanted to try. But what the hell? Who have I got to impress now? Surely there are no single men my age who will go all in for a smoker. And thank God the smoke is there in my mouth as a safety, to give me that extra beat before I say anything back, because at this point, I definitely don’t have anything nice to say, and we all know what our mothers taught us about saying anything nice.

            
            She squints at me in the sunlight. Maybe she’s trying to look pleading behind her thick, dark lashes, but all I can come up with to call it is squinty, so I try not to think about how Nathan used to say one of his favorite things about me were my days-long eyelashes and glare at her from behind my sunglasses. They’ve gotten a lot of use lately.

            
            When I say nothing she squirms in the metal seat and picks at the hem of her skirt. She would be a skirt-wearer. Yeah, I went through that phase when I was around her age, too. But I outgrew it and maybe wish I hadn’t. She probably guesses what I’m thinking because she says, “I’m sorry. When I asked you here, I thought this would be easier.”

            
            “Ah.” I know it’s not going well when all I can articulate are ineffectual monosyllables.

            
            She runs a thumb through the sweat on her water glass then wipes it on the tablecloth. “I don’t know. I guess I acted on impulse.”

            
            Imagine that. Maybe you should learn when to keep your perky mouth shut.

            
            “I just wanted a chance,” she starts, then stops, because the waiter has shown up with her slice of chocolate cake and our coffees.

            
            He looks—expectantly—at me, the hefty one wearing my in-their-sixth-year-jeans and my ragged tank top and says, “Chocolate cake?” which earns him a glare from behind my trusty sunglasses.

            
            “Here,” she says, and sticks her sharp little pointer finger in the air, as if, just in case he had any question about where her response came from, he would know to deliver the generous slice to that very spot in the middle of the air, to exactly where she points. Something about that gesture lets me know she’s a perfectionist, a trait I happen to know Nathan admires, if not needs.

            
            The waiter relinquishes the coffee and cake without ceremony then leaves.

            
            I can see the tiny bones in her thin hand when she picks up her fork. She does that squinty thing with her eyes again, looks up at me and dips her head closer to the plate. “They have the best cake here; you really should try it,” and I hate her and the way her back arches and the way her lips close silently around a fork. I hate how she is so many things I will never be. My impression so far: she is young, skinny, whimsical, and sadly, seemingly intelligent.

            
            Of course he fell in love with her. There’s a philosophy book peeking out of the well-worn yet still fashionable messenger bag she pulled off her shoulder when she showed up. Her face is clean and strangely pretty. She wears patent-leather Mary Janes. On anyone else, I, too, would admire these things.

            
            But right now I can’t. And for no rational reason. Who was it who taught us all those years ago that anger is an impolite emotion for ladies to feel, let alone express? I am absolutely and obsessively stuck on the idea that all this is somehow my fault.

            
            Nathan and I met in an accountant’s office, where we were both clients. He introduced himself by making some lame joke about the credibility of an accountant who would spend so much money on fashion magazines and gourmet candies for the waiting room. And I laughed about it. Of course I laughed about it. And I let him take me out to coffee after my appointment. And there he was, his man, this account rep for some insurance agency in town, who seemed to be successful and a little shy, which I thought was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

            
            We dated for three whole years before he asked me to marry him. And I waited for him to ask that whole time, too. We took dance classes before the wedding. He wanted to be able to dip me perfectly right there in front of all the people we knew. Jesus, the dance was perfect. I had such hope those early days. If only I hadn’t laughed at his stupid joke or accepted his invitation to coffee, I’d be somewhere else now.

            
            When I sip my coffee it tastes burned. Two weeks ago, before I knew about him and her and the not-me-and-him (I don’t think I can stand a me-and-him anymore), I would have casually added cream and sugar, or requested the snotty little waiter brew a fresh pot. Of course, I was cocky and generally confident then. Nathan has always assured me in his practical way there would never be anyone else for him. And he was so reliable—so reliable—that I believed him. I thought I had all my bases covered. But now, I bookend my sips of underwhelming coffee with a cigarette and watch things move in her delicate, pale throat as she swallows.

            
            “Oh, I was saying that I wanted to talk to you in person. Explain myself.”

            
            What’s there to explain? You and my husband met secretly to sleep together for eight whole months. Would you care to compare techniques? The finer points of seducing a married man? Which hotels offer the best hourly rates? I swallow the urge to say this and tell her, “Go on.”

            
            She says, “Well,” then sits up in her seat and crosses her ankles, and she looks more than ever like a little girl. So many things on that ever-growing list of the ways I could never compete with her. Overly kind people may have once tried to tell me I still have something youthful about me, but not now, not since this. Somehow I still can’t believe any of this is happening. “First of all, you have to know we never intended to hurt you.”

            
            Funny. That’s one of the first things he said when I confronted him about that number and all those texts on the phone bill I actually flipped through for once before paying it. He just stood there, hands on his hips, with this relieved look on his still-handsome face. “I’m not going to lie anymore,” he said. That’s when I wanted to vomit, because if he’s been anything, he’s always been cool, honest, painfully so at times—it was one of those things I just put up with; marriage isn’t all sunshine, I know that. “I’ve been seeing someone else. And not because of you.” That’s about when my knees buckled and I fell into what I felt was an appropriately dramatic heap on the gritty kitchen floor. He continued speaking, and I think he may have said something about “I still love you,” but I wasn’t listening.

            
            “Jenny? Are you okay?” She leans toward me. She even smells nice, damnit.

            
            There’s an injustice in the world when she gets to use my name.

            
            “You went kind of glassy-eyed there. Do you want some of my water?”

            
            Do you want some of my fist? “I’m fine. No.”

            
            “You sure?”

            
            No, I’m not sure; I can’t decide if her eyes remind me of a cow or a cat. Maybe it’s both. Maybe if I punch her I’ll know. And so will she, maybe.

            
            “Continue.” If I were a more dramatic-type person, I would explain the way the sun shone in harsh silvers across the cars along the street or the way the sidewalk looked almost freckled by all that abandoned gum in various stages of graying. I might even mention the fat bird that wasn’t a pigeon and the delighted way he hopped around among the crumbs of others.

            
            But I am not so romantic. And I notice the way a breeze billows out her cotton blouse, making her seem even more petite inside. I can’t not listen.

            
            “I want to tell you because I feel so terribly guilty.” She sort of glances sideways at me, for approval—I know exactly what she’s doing. I’ve made that face—but she’s not getting any from this side of the table. “We met at that BlueCross conference in Austin last year (This much I already figured.) and he didn’t tell me he was married. (This much I did not.) We just talked in Austin, I swear. He looked at my nametag and saw I’m from over in Buffalo, and it seemed like such a coincidence (Yeah, big fat coincidence that two people from neighboring towns would go to one national conference.) that he asked if we could get together some time once we got back to Missouri.”

            
            My God, they don’t even have an original story, and that doesn’t help any. But I say, “I see.”

            
            “When we met for lunch that first time, he was just so sweet.” There goes that pretty smile of hers. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

            
            I might have at one time. We’ve been married almost ten years. He may wipe his boogers on the duvet cover at night when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he’s also been known to surprise me with “just because” cards and dinners—which is still unoriginal, but there’s a reason the cliché exists and is perpetuated. It’s still pleasant to be surprised. Sometimes.

            
            When he told me about her, I was mostly surprised at first. We certainly hadn’t been swinging from chandeliers in mad passion, but we hadn’t exactly found ourselves in fisticuffs, physical or otherwise. The only bill we’ve ever been late paying was the cable, and even that was my fault for trying to send the damn thing out on a holiday weekend. I thought we were responsible adults. I didn’t realize he was so bored with me.

            
            She watches the cigarette in my hand as I bring it to my lips.

            
            “Would you mind very much if I bummed one of those off you?”

            
            Sure. Take away one more thing I cherish. I get a bob of the head as thank you.

            
            “We didn’t start officially seeing each other—God, I called him my boyfriend!—until I lost my job and he helped me out then.”

            
            Jesus. Christ. “So that six-hundred dollars in May he said was for conference fees?”

            
            She closes her eyes lightly, just pulls the shades down in a gesture of realization. “That was probably me. I am so—”     

            
            “I was hoping to use that to go on a cruise with him. For our anniversary.” Now we’re both puffing our cigarettes, only she’s trembling all over, her hand, her chin, her shiny, watery eyes.

            
            “I didn’t know,” she squeaks out.

            
            “Neither did I.” My voice is so cool and calm, if it weren’t for this ridiculous hurt, I might feel like a badass. “He was my husband, and I look even dumber because I didn’t know.” Now I want cake.

            
            She lays her palm on the table between us. “You don’t look dumb.”

            
            “You know, I think I intercepted some flowers for you once.” Her name is Sylvia. He called her Sill. I thought it was an old lady’s name at first, but then I started thinking of Sylvia and Mickey and that stupid song from Dirty Dancing where Patrick Swayze and that Baby chick start crawling across the dance floor lip-synching to this disgusting song, crooning, “Baby, oh baby, my sweet baby, you’re the one!” And yeah, it was sexy when I was seventeen, but now it’s just dirty. “Big, beautiful bouquet of exotic wildflowers—you would’ve loved it, I’m sure—and the idiot has them delivered to the house. I guess he was hoping to get home before me and sneak them away to you. But I was there when the delivery man came.”

            
            By the wide-eyed look on her face she’s either thrilled or horrified. I keep going.

            
            “The card read, ‘I love you sill.’ I thought he’d just forgotten the ‘t’ in still. And I told him so when I thanked him for the flowers that night.”

            
            When the waiter stops back by, I’m going to ask for some bourbon to go with my cake. And she just sits there, as open as a newly-made bed.

            
            “Now that was dumb.” I point at her for emphasis. At least I can admit it.

            
            “Which?”

            
            “All of it, I guess. Me thinking he’d be the same old Nathan he’d always been, you not knowing he was married.”

            
            “Sending the flowers to the house in the first place.”

            
            “Exactly.” God, she even thinks like me.

            
            “He never could get my house number right.”

            
            “No, he wouldn’t. I was in charge of the details. He was always better with the grand ideas. Big dreams, no notion of how to achieve them.” Static life.

            
            I watch the waiter press his skinny ass against the door to push it open. He’s got one of those hawk-like noses. It moves a little when he stands himself up straighter and pulls his I’m-here-to-serve smile out and plasters it on. There’s a half-full coffeepot in his hand.

            
            “More coffee?”

            
            “Could you brew a fresh pot? This one’s pretty cooked.” She swirls her cup at him to help demonstrate.

            
            I’m probably supposed to give her credit for speaking the truth, and one I couldn’t bring myself to say, but I won’t. She can handle tasks like that. Leave the substantive stuff to me. “And two more pieces of cake.”

            
            “Sure. Coming right up.” He fake-twinkles at us and goes inside.

            
            “Couldn’t resist, huh?” She has crossed her legs at the knee and leaned back in her chair in a way that reads to me a hell of a lot like she’s trying to protect herself. “It is really good cake.”

            
            “That other piece is for you. Or we might split it.” I don’t know why I say it. I still haven’t ruled out poisoning her or choking her. Maybe I want her to see what it’s really like to carry a little extra weight around.

            She seems to interpret my order as a good sign. She shakes her head to remove the bangs from her eyes. “There’s so much I want to tell you.”

            
            I open my mouth to say she doesn’t have to, that I don’t to hear it, that it’s probably only stuff I already know, but she keeps going on and on.

            “He wanted us to move to Europe. Just drop everything and go. I don’t even have a passport. He was rash and unpredictable and fresh and new, and it was thrilling at first. Then he started getting controlling. He said I wasn’t to wear make-up because it attracted men to me. And we had a huge fight about pants and then high heels. Then it was any kind of heel.” What she’s saying surprises me. This is not the Nathan I knew. I consider asking her more about his mania, but I can’t interrupt her. She’s talking with her hands now: she’s rolling the words out from somewhere in her middle. These are the things she’s wanted to say and hasn’t had anybody to tell them to. It strikes me as more sad than just. Nathan and I always told each other everything. Well, almost. Maybe I’ll pick and choose my disclosures from now on—and out of position, not out of politeness or anger. “And he told me to stop eating so much sugar because he said it would make me fat, and he wouldn’t listen when I said I’d like to gain a little. There were other things too. I got so scared; I didn’t know what to do. He kept calling me these horrible names.

            
            “Thank you—”

            I look up, and there’s Hawk-nose with two plates asking with eyebrows and a smile who gets what, explaining a fresh pot is on right now. I take the plates out of his hands and pass one to her. Neither of us picks up a fork.

            
            “I felt so overwhelmed, Jenny. I was afraid he might get violent,” she whispers. “Was he ever—that way—with you?”

            
            My wedge of cake looks too perfect just sitting there so I fork off the end to destroy it some. Both parts of cake and the fork stay on my plate. “No, actually, he hasn’t ever.”

            
            “I see.”

            
            “Sylvia—”

            
            “—I guess it makes sense. Of course. He married you.” And now the pause is appropriate for a bite of cake. When she swallows, I see she is crying. “Maybe from now on I’ll learn to listen to my instincts. Part of me knew something wasn’t right about it all. I mean, a man just doesn’t get all angry like that.” She looks out onto the street, and just when I start to get tired of her melodrama, she looks back. Her sweet little face has gone hard. “Yeah. Dumb. I think that’s the right word for it all.”

            
            I think she’s finally starting to figure it all out. Hopefully now we can all just get over this. I tell her, “Maybe.” For a moment, the only thing for either of us to do is to look anywhere but at the woman in front of us. The non-pigeon hops under a pickup, eating gravel. I suspect she and I are having mutual mini-revelations about who we are, about who we do and don’t want to be. She’s just a kid, probably not even thirty. “What are you going to do now?”

            
            “Ah, I think I may move back east. Live with my parents on their farm for a while. We’re a dairy family.”

            
            “And Nathan?”

            
            “He said he wanted to try with the two of you.”

            
            “And if I tell him no, what about you two?”

            
            “It’s just not.” She shakes her head. “We’re not. Not anymore.”

            
            “I’ve known his good side. For a long time. But we may have been over for years.” I was wrong about what I said earlier. I knew he was bored with me. We were both bored. And scared. We were in the same bed and worlds apart, like so many other poor saps out there.

            
            “Sure. Yeah.” She isn’t trying to swallow cake with her tears anymore. Now she just cries.

            
            Myself, I feel strange. I feel like I’m supposed to have compassion for her, but I’ll only trade that if she admits I was the superior choice. And even if she was the last straw and our excuse out, I still get to be angry.

            
            Realizing this calms me, which is surprising. Really, she is probably harmless. She looks like she’s not done speaking, though. “What else?”

            
            She smiles at that, grateful. “What do we do now?” she whispers. If she speaks any louder, she’ll be sobbing in public. I know this kind of crying. It’s what I do at night—or what I used to do at night—when Nathan was sleeping in the bed beside me, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed to cry, but didn’t want to explain anything to him because I didn’t know how, or if I did, wouldn’t want to face the consequences. I just kept my head down and told myself we were together, period, and figured that was enough to make it stick.

            
            “Let’s just finish our cake,” I tell her. “And watch the birds. Maybe we can name them before we go our separate ways. What should we call that one?”

            
            “That chickadee?”

            
            “Yeah. Chickadee.”

            “You’re right. Probably just Chickadee works best.” She looks at me for a moment before she says, “You know, you seem like such a strong woman. A good woman.”

            I nod, thinking about her words.

            “And you really didn’t deserve any of this.”

            She is right. And maybe because this younger, sleeker version of me—poor, unoriginal Nathan—is finally realizing this, I can be honest with her. “I don’t. Deserve this. And I kind of don’t think you deserve to be sitting at the same table as me.”

            “So it’s probably not okay if I feel close to you right now, is it?”

            She only thinks she feels close to me. “Not really. Not to me.”

            She wrinkles her pretty forehead, and I’m not sure what just happened, but it feels right, and I take a final bite of my cake and watch the bird maneuver its way in and out of the shade, down the street.