Mark's Shirt
Hanging up, the cold silence pressed in again. I walked to the bedroom closet. Mark’s side. Fingers brushed the row of neatly hung shirts. Mostly formal, a few checked casuals. My eyes locked onto a deep blue pinstripe. He wore it last Wednesday—his birthday. I’d ironed it meticulously that morning, paired it with his favorite silver tie. He came home late that night too—"with clients." He tossed it over the chair. Next morning, picking it up for the laundry, I froze. Inside the collar, near the shoulder seam.
A faint, almost invisible smudge of pink. Tiny. Like lipstick. Or dye transfer? Foundation? A flicker of doubt, quickly drowned by Lily’s morning cries. Forgotten. Until now. I yanked open a drawer, digging beneath folded clothes. The pinstripe lay buried at the bottom. Pulled it out. Held it close. Sniffed. Beneath the detergent scent, the pink smudge remained. Clearer now. And clinging faintly, a whiff of an unfamiliar, sweet perfume. Not mine. Not anything we owned. I crumpled the shirt violently in my fist, the rustling fabric loud in the quiet room. Nails dug into my palm, pressing against the pink spot.
Sleepless Rain
Rain started past midnight. Fat drops smacked the window pane. Tap. Tap. I lay in bed, eyes open, watching streetlight shadows flicker on the wall. Mark’s side: empty, pillow cold, sheets smooth. His "late night" continued. My mind screened a chaotic montage: Emily’s screaming emojis, the damned blue dot, the exact map overlap, the icy "Wrong PIN," the suggestive forum titles, the shirt’s pink stain.
Rain hissed. Like tiny needles stitching my frayed nerves. My temples throbbed. Seven years rewound: his damp eyes lifting my veil; his goofy grin when Lily first said "Dada"; massaging his temples after late work; his slamming door during fights; the multiplying "late nights," "functions," "clients"… Trust, once a sparkling crystal, clear and pure. When did the fog settle? When did the first hairline crack appear? Outside, the downpour intensified, washing the world.
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