Wife Leaves Unfaithful Husband

I was hunting for bargains in the supermarket while my husband was using his credit card at a high-end spa for another woman. A necklace, picked up during a sale, was presented to me as a token for our anniversary.

“Thanks for all your years of support, darling. I’ll love you even more from now on.”

The back of the necklace box had a glaring label indicating it was complimentary. I neither exposed his lie nor accepted the necklace. The pile of discounted groceries on the table was as glaringly obvious as the gift necklace, both equally devoid of meaning. Suddenly, an overwhelming tiredness washed over me.

"Mauricio, I have a dinner meeting tonight. I won’t be home for dinner. Take care," he said, adjusting his clothes in front of the mirror and carefully applying hair gel. He rushed out without a word from me.

On the table, a wilting bouquet of roses exuded a scent of decay. I sat on the sofa for what felt like an eternity, staring blankly. The dim lights flickered like my dwindling spirit. I thought back to the shadowy days I spent with him, only to end up with other people's leftovers now. The irony was stifling.

Suddenly, fireworks went off outside, and it took a moment to register. It was Thanksgiving. What a wonderful day, yet here I was, surrounded by discount groceries, withered flowers, and a gift necklace.

Mauricio stumbled home past midnight, reeking of alcohol. My thoughts snapped as the heavy scent of perfume wafted in. After his shower, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. I remembered that he would do this every time he returned from a social event, and I would respond in my half-asleep state, feeling sorry for his long hours. But now I realized it was likely just his attempt to ease his guilt.

Listening to his loud snores, sleeping soundly, he must truly be exhausted. I didn’t move, just stared blankly with my eyes wide open. I recalled in the morning how I thought I’d scored big with my bargain groceries, only to unexpectedly see Mauricio with his arms around another woman, entering a private room in the spa. The woman reveling in his embrace was Aleah Andrews, the high school beauty queen, a shadowy figure from my past.

The spa’s mirrors reflected my aged, worn face. The attendant approached me with poor timing, smiling as she asked, “Ma’am, would you like to try a session? We have a special offer now, just $600 per session, and the effects are amazing, like turning back time to when you were eighteen.”

I vaguely remembered when Mauricio paid, the cashier, beaming, said, “Sir, you really pamper your wife. Twelve sessions, and she’ll look as fresh as a high schooler.”

Twelve sessions, how much would that cost? I crouched there, collecting apples, my mind frantic with calculations. Yet no matter how I tried, the numbers eluded me. The apples kept slipping through the holes in the bag