Cheap Perfume
Pushing the car door open, damp cold air rushed in. Pulling my coat tight, I hurried across the sidewalk to a corner convenience store under a large awning. Inside, sterile lighting, messy aisles. A plump young woman behind the counter scrolled videos, loud music playing. I pretended to browse drinks by the window—a vantage point offering a blurred view of the hotel's grand entrance. Minutes crawled. People flowed through the revolving door. Suits. Dresses.
Suddenly, it turned again. A man in his forties emerged—grey suit, top button undone, hair messy. A young woman in a sequined miniskirt clung to him, thick makeup, giggling, hand possessively on his back. A wave of overpowering, cheaply sweet perfume hit me even through the glass and rain. Cloying. Nauseating. He hailed a cab; they tumbled in laughing. I jerked my gaze away. My stomach lurched. Bile rose. That perfume—it felt identical to the scent ghosting the pink stain on Mark’s collar.
A Familiar Back
Leaning against the cold fridge door, fingers numb, I fumbled for money. My gaze drifted back to the hotel entrance. The revolving door slid open silently. A figure stepped out. Dark, tailored suit. One hand in trouser pocket, a high-quality coat draped over the other arm. Walking steadily, head down, checking his phone. My heart skipped, then slammed against my ribs. Blood rushed to my head. That posture. That silhouette etched in my mind.
The set of his shoulders. The dip of his neck. The slight tension in his ankles as he walked. Every detail screamed one name: Mark! What was he doing here? Now? 10:45 AM? He was supposed to be in meetings across town! He’d said all-day meetings, dinner later… He lowered his phone, glanced up, scanning the area. His face turned fully towards me— I jerked back into the store’s shadows like I’d been shocked, spine pressed into cold metal shelving. Pain shot through me. Heart hammered in my throat. Choking. It *was* him. Beyond doubt. Mark Williams. My husband.
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