I watched the muscles in his throat work. I watched the arrogant, perfectly manicured line of his jaw.
One sip.
Two sips.
Three.
He didn’t pull a face. He didn’t pause to inspect the dark liquid. He drank it all in a series of rapid, thoughtless gulps, desperate for the caffeine hit to fuel his illicit morning.
Not a single complaint.
That hurt a little, to be honest. It was a sharp, unexpected sting right in the center of my chest. Back when he still looked at me with affection, back when our kitchen felt like a sanctuary rather than a waiting room, he had never drunk my coffee so fast. We used to linger. He used to hold the mug with both hands, savoring the warmth, asking me about my dreams, my plans for the day. Now, my coffee was just premium gasoline for his escape vehicle.
He set the empty mug down on the counter with a hollow clack.
“And where are you going smelling so perfumed?” I asked, leaning against the door frame, crossing my arms over my chest to keep my hands from shaking.
“Meeting,” he replied smoothly, not missing a beat as he grabbed his car keys from the ceramic bowl by the door. “One of those important ones. You know how it is… strategy, quarterly projections… synergy.”
He threw those words around like they were impenetrable shields. He used his corporate lexicon as fancy excuses to build a wall between his life and mine. Synergy. The word tasted like ash in my mind.
“Synergy with lace?” I murmured softly, almost to myself.
He didn’t hear me, or he chose not to. He was already walking down the corridor, his mind a million miles away, visualizing the lobby where his luxury shampoo secretary was waiting.
