The Dying Flame of Love

To save my wife, my lungs were pierced by a knife, leaving lasting consequences.

When I fell ill and struggled to breathe, she said I was dramatic and went on a business trip with her childhood friend.

When she returned, I found a man's underwear in her suitcase that did not belong to me.

I calmly made the call: "Director, I've made up my mind. I'm going to assist in Avrika."

Later, at the airport, she bent down, publicly lowering her head and begging for my forgiveness.

"Are you positive about this? It's going to be rough out there. What about your old injury? How are you going to break it to your wife?"

I glanced at Yvonne Scott, my wife, and the suitcase spilled open on the floor, a pair of men's briefs lying on top.

I inhaled deeply and let out a wry laugh. "She's cool with it."

"Okay, then. Start packing. We're heading out in two weeks."

The director ended the call, and that was that.

Yvonne stepped out of the bathroom, her hair still dripping, and draped herself over my shoulder.

"Miss me, babe?"

She puckered up for a kiss.

I stepped aside and pointed at the briefs in the suitcase. "That's not mine."

She barely batted an eye. "Oops, those are Wade's. Got mixed up when I packed after our work trip. He's a client."

She tossed the briefs in the trash and reached for my face, her touch gentle.

"Don't sweat it. Wade and I are like family. If anything was going to happen, it would've happened. Plus, he's married. You've got nothing to worry about."

Her smile was too perfect, not a flicker of doubt in sight.

Her lips were inches from mine when the phone buzzed.

She glanced at it and spun around. "I'll be there in a minute!"

With her coat on, she was out the door in a flash.

I caught a glimpse of her phone screen, a name that read 'Wade Lawson'.

I forced myself to focus, pulling up a list of what to pack for a humanitarian mission to Avrika, jotting down each item.

Then came Wade's latest social media update.

[Nothing like a hot bowl of noodles to warm the soul. Thank you for your support in tough times.]

The photo showed a bowl with two fried eggs piled up on the noodles. Off to the side was Yvonne's hand, with the ring I had splurged on catching the light.

It was not our wedding band. That had been lost to time, just like the warmth she had never really shared with me.

For three long years in college, I chased after her, but she never gave me the time of day. It was not until our senior year, in the thick of our internships, that she got swamped with a tough case.

I showed up with a homemade meal to cheer her up, only to run into a troublemaker defendant with a knife in hand.

When