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Hello, I'm welcome to cheating all the time.
Glad you are here.
Let's get into this next crazy cheat.
Say the line again, but make it softer like you were telling her a secret,
I urged.
Nijimako's foot under the coffee table as he sprinted at script in his hands.
He rolled his head back, flopping into the sofa cushions,
and side an exaggerated suffering.
Emma doesn't have any secrets.
He just has bad puns and monologues about his childhood pain.
I grin, prodding.
If you're not convincing as Emma by opening night, they'll swap you for the back up.
He's shorter, but he can cry on command.
Marco toss a fru pillow at me and I dodge, turning my smile into one his Emma would give vulnerable, softly disarming.
I'm only here for the free snacks.
Marco matched my look, but his gaze slid off me, landing somewhere over my shoulder,
then darting to his phone on the coffee table as it poles with a series of buzzes.
His mouth twitch somewhere between smile and grimace.
He pressed the lock button, darkening the screen, and mutter,
sorry, cast group chat, probably cue changes, or more means from Adam.
Yeah?
I leaned over trying to spot the notifications preview.
Marco shifted his elbow, blocking my way, and flashed a distracted smile
I come to recognize from rehearsal nights.
He rose quickly, gathering his notes, the lines abandoned half-read.
I caught the shadow of scent lifting from his hoodie of puffy arms,
wheat, and peppery at once, hardly the laundry so by-horned it for his theatre clothes.
It was subtle enough I almost doubted myself at first, until he turned and the aroma drifted off him,
neon compared to the usual scent of our living room.
Marco's energy frayed at the edges evasive, jittery.
Mind if I grab a shower?
That sage just is making me itch?
Go ahead, I replied, but kept my gaze fixed,
measuring the line of tensions exiting from his clenched jortus, hammering thumb,
flicking through text previews as he walked toward the hallway.
He vanished into the bathroom almost before I could respond.
I listened for the telto shuffle of clothes and the quickening pattern of water.
Through the frosted glass, silence at first,
then the hurried rhythm of a man scrubbing something away.
A few minutes later, he came out, hair damp, skin-pinked from a too hot shower.
He was clean, another scent trailing from him my citrus body wash,
not quite masking the echo of the elbow perfume.
He barely met my eyes and said, ghosting his palm across my shoulder as he scooped up his phone.
I'll just check in on lines before bed, big tech rehearsal tomorrow,
he said, already stepping into the hallway as the phone began to vibrate again in his palm.
When I peered over at the screen, I caught only the edge of a name, Sierra Theatre.
The message preview was gone, Marco shot me a fleeting grin and called,
just production stuff, back in a sec.
Left in the couch, I stared at the wall, a pale yellow glow pulling around me from the standing lamp.
The night felt stretched thin, as if even the apartments all bones sensed something shifting.
I pressed my nose to the arm of Marco's abandoned hoodie and inhaled,
surging for the trace of her scent, wanting evidence as much as I wanted to be wrong.
Back then, before these little emissions, I wouldn't have given a second thought to who was texting Marco,
or why he'd suddenly started showering the second he got home.
I'd have chalked it up to nerves, or maybe opening night jitters.
Those first years together made suspicion feel impossible.
Marco and I had always been a teen, our life a patchwork of care,
and habits sewn together in private, ordinary ways.
We woke every morning to the kettle's whistle and exchanged wordless glances,
as we bumble through coffee making, his hand always falling into mine
and the weight of the fridge.
Mornings meant crosswood games with toast crumbs between us,
our banta weaving between old and side jukes and declarations of mock war
over who'd solve the tough ones first.
This, the depassion, had pulled me into the city's makeshift performance bases,
a two of us huddled on musty lawn chairs, splitting peanut M and MS in the dark.
Community theatre was Marco's oxygenous friends, his rituals,
his reason to rehearse monologues in the shower and slip into my lap between line runs.
For years, I didn't mind being the plus one logging tupperware dinners to rehearsals,
silently mouthing cues from the back row as he tried out accents and slapstick bits.
We'd rehearse scenes over stir fries on the couch,
the show bleeding into our private world until Marco's laughter seemed to echo from both stages.
Our mutual support was the glue he called me his lucky charm,
the one who could calm his nose, who cared enough to take cue cards inside his shoes,
and stitch missing buttons onto his black pants at midnight.
When he forgot lines, he'd nozzle my neck, whispering,
you're my secret weapon, framing every mistake as evidence we belonged.
Truss wasn't a word we needed to say out loud.
It was firefly bright, casual, taken for granted.
But now, as the weeks ticked by and that strained perfume appeared twice,
then three times, each time stronger I counted these older comforts
and wondered if I was stoppiling proof against an invisible threat.
Day by day, nothing changed up right, and yet everything did.
Marco still rose at dawn for his Sunday jogs,
still pressed his palm to the small of my back when we crossed Burnside for groceries,
still dropped jokes into our conversation like Marshmallow's and Cucco.
But new cracks had begun to show, thin fishers running quietly through us.
The first age to that feeling came with his new rehearsal schedule
always a little later than before, because the cast just gets along really well this time.
I waited up once, then twice, the ball of pasta congealing
by my elbow while I scroll past midnight, eyes dragging to the front door
every time a car passed outside.
He tumble through the entryway at nearly 1 a.m.,
laughter brittle voice too loud, offering kisses, beholding himself stiff.
Sorry, babe, cast in a round late we lost track of time,
heaks cues, then padded into the kitchen for water, eyes flicking quickly away from mine.
At first I chalked it up to opening weak nerves.
The play was ambitious, the cast knew, Sierra the group's latest addition
had never worked with Marco before.
When I finally met her at a Saturday rehearsal reception,
I orchestrated by delivering snacks to the green room,
she wore her hair in a braided crown and sported eyeliner
so shot it could have sliced my debts in half.
She laughed too readily at Marco's jokes, head to room back,
touching his forearm with easy familiarity.
Did you meet the infamous Sierra yet, but one of the stage of hands whisper,
peeling a cupcake wrapper.
She's got Marco re-learning half the blocking, real firecracker,
but she keeps us on time.
I'd watch Marco then watch how he grinned at Sierra,
how his gaze didn't flinch from her as the way it did sometimes from mine.
But he came home with me, hugging my waist and murmuring
thank yous for the effort, for the snacks, for the sport.
Until the first Saturday he forgot our tradition,
burgers and trivia night at my commandments.
I texted at seven, asterisk on my way.
For ice for you or no?
Asterisk he replied on the after-night,
a jiff of tap-dancing penguins, the text Asterisk total chaos here,
cast in a red line, sorry.
Tick a rain check.
Asterisk had consoled myself with a walk in the drizzle,
the ache of the empty seat beside me dumb and obvious.
When he returned that night again with the odd perfume,
vaguely sweet and exotic, an ecliptopology he seemed
both present and remote.
I watched him from across the dinner table,
his gaze rooted in his phone.
He smiled at a message that arrived while I was dishing up pasta
the lock screen briefly lighting with Sierra Theatre.
He half laughed at something he read and,
when I raised an eyebrow, he shook his head,
brushing off the inquiry,
grouped chats wilder there trying to me my director now.
I reached for his hand, but he drew it back,
twisting his wedding band until it clicked against the table.
After dinner he cleared his plates with deliberate care,
muttering, sorry, just a lot on my mind with these rehearsals.
It's a much bigger production than before.
He didn't offer the usual good night kiss,
crawling into bed and falling asleep with his phone clutch to his chest.
The small changes were barely perceptible,
yet they locked into place.
One after another, Marko laughing at his phone
late into the night, screen brightness turned down,
sometimes stepping out onto the balcony for air.
His phone, once left anywhere in the house,
was now passed with locked face down.
Castenners became more frequent,
always just running late,
always weirdly fun this time around.
He came home smelling of wine,
laughter stuck in his throat, hugging me,
hello, but letting him brace brick first too soon.
His text me grew shorter asterisk love you,
late to night asterisk punctuated
by silences that yon through our evenings like teeth.
I found myself making more elaborate dinners,
kicking his favorite chicken paccato,
ginger beef bowls, whole roasted vegetables.
Sometimes he'd bring home takeout instead,
already full apologizing, sorry,
cast insisted on ordering in.
Can we save this for tomorrow?
His explanations were practiced now.
Someone else had chosen the restaurant,
everyone had to stay in bond.
You know how opening night gets.
When I greeted him on the stairwell,
sometimes I catch a bold slick of unfamiliar perfume,
almost floral swelling in the air
between us before I could speak.
If I asked he'd wave it off,
Sierra wears way too much glow,
but she gives the best slime readings,
you're not actually jealous of my stage wife,
are you?
And he tried to make it a joke
to flip my concern into a punchline,
only to end a conversation before I could answer.
Other nights I'd put my head
into the living room and see Marco on a call,
laughed a stitch with Hush.
I'd hear Sierra's name drift through the half open door,
always paved with lightweight teases,
never quite innocent, can't wait till Friday know,
you make me look good on stage,
is where.
When I'd enter, he'd hang up quickly,
cradling his phone like something too fragile to share.
If I pressed, he'd bristle, voice sharpening,
it's work, not what you think,
you know how intense this show gets.
But the easy mood between us thickened,
sired by things unsaid.
He still performed the gestures wiping crumbs
from my chin, cupping my cheeks in the mornings,
texting me silly memes,
but they felt more like duty than impulse.
I started questioning what was real,
what was simply repetition.
Sometimes I tried to catch him off guard,
swinging by rehearsal early with baked goods,
watching from backstage as the actors ran scenes.
Once, before I run through, I stood behind her
Ralph chair and watched Sierra lean in close to Marco
between their cue cards, pressing her hand to his arm,
giggling at something just for him.
He glanced my way, flustered, and stepped back.
When I walked up a coffee,
their conversation scattered,
Sierra twirling a pen between her fingers,
eyes starting to Marco.
He smiled at me,
but his mouth twitched, eyes sliding left.
I watched her sling her scarf over her shoulder,
perfect trailing,
leaving Marco blinking after her.
When we pat up to leave,
he struggled with his lens,
his voice jittery as I offered to run them with him.
He met my gaze, searching,
then cleared his throat and said,
let's just do it at home, and dead on my feet.
I tried to hold his hand in a parking lot,
but he slipped his foreign free
and started typing for a brow,
let's press tight.
The receipt started piling in next.
The first few were a knock,
his crumpled fast food and coffee slips,
nothing odd.
Then, tucked in the side pocket of his rehearsal bag,
a late-night taxi stub from the east side,
time stamped after midnight.
A receipt for a two-top at the wine cellar,
a place we'd only been together for anniversaries.
Receipts for craft cocktails,
ones I knew he didn't like,
written for tabs left open until one in the morning.
I sifted through the bag,
in the half dark,
heart-pitching between hope and dread,
telling myself it was grew boundings,
direct meetings,
cast strategy sessions.
But I couldn't shake the sense that these places
were not meant for crowds they were intimate,
candlelit,
the kind of spots you found your reflection
in someone else's eyes.
The stranger's didn't lit up at home.
On nights,
when Marco crashed on the couch after rehearsals,
I began to notice lipstick stains on mug's lipstick I never wore,
deep rose,
not the colorless chapstick I favored.
Once, cleaning up after him,
I found a mug in the sink sear as lipstick,
clear as a thumbprinted room resting inside Marco's empty coffee cup.
Not in rehearsal,
not in any backstage area,
but at our house.
The explanation felt slippery,
hard to summon.
Things came to a head on a Thursday
when I overheard him rehearsing line's lead
at night's voice lower,
coated with laughter I hadn't heard in weeks.
Outside the door,
I could just make out your trouble, Sierra.
I really can't wait till Friday now.
I won't tell her,
don't be crazy okay,
and a bit awaited counting the seconds,
pressing upon to the painted world,
trying to decide if I was being paranoid or simply present.
When I pushed in on him,
Marco pelled a little,
hanging up quickly,
from screen turned to his chest.
I asked charioply,
who are you talking to so late?
He bristled,
shoving script into his bag.
It's work for God's sake.
We're blocking the new love scene.
Sierra wandered podders from the director.
What do you think it is?
He sounded tired, irritable,
teeth flushed,
and a brittle half-smile,
daring me to challenge the innocence of it,
to lay my suspicions on the table.
I tried,
it just feels like you're hiding something.
He shot back,
I'm not,
it's theatre,
not daytime TV,
just let me get through the next two weeks.
I offered to help him prep for the Friday scene,
but he only waved me off,
it's nothing just staging,
he'd be bored.
I tried to hold him,
but he slipped away.
Still, I couldn't let it go.
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That night I scrolled assertions
for any trace I found nothing,
no tags from Sierra,
no photos,
not even grouped in as others.
I walked the next morning
with Amika the back of my throat,
re-bling every laugh,
every miss call,
every jaunt to the wine bar.
I started to doubt myself.
Was it me?
Was it boredom?
Was I projecting unhappiness
onto the only piece of our life
that looked new from the outside?
Friday came,
packed with our usual pretenses.
I cooked his fever a stir fry,
left a bottle of bread
in the counter,
and counted the I.O.'s.
Marco texted at six,
Asteris cast in a running late.
Don't wait up.
Love you.
Asteris kept midnight
the apartment was silent,
but for the hum of the fridge.
I sat in the glow of my phone,
reading and rereading old conversations
for signs I'd missed.
The next morning,
sat a date of tech rehearsal
I made up my mind.
While Marco was showering,
I pulled through his rehearsal back
for a swedder he'd asked me to find.
As I sifted scripts
and crinkle receipts,
something fluttered loose,
a folded note,
a screen pages,
cream paper thin at the edges.
The handwriting was neat,
curly, not Marco's.
Asterisk last night was with the risk.
As asterisk.
I stared a moment,
how jack-a-moring,
trying to decipher the intent,
risk of what?
Late dinner?
Or something bigger,
something I'd been piecing together,
afraid to name out loud.
I carried the note into the bathroom,
confronting him while the steam
still clung to the mirror.
What's this, Marco?
He took it, squinted,
then rolled his eyes,
letting out a sharp breath.
Though, come on,
theater joke.
Sierra leaves joking notes
for everyone's shoes,
like infamous for it,
probably about the cast sneaking out early.
You're reading into it.
There's nothing between us,
seriously.
He moved toward me,
reaching for my hands,
voice syrup's wheat.
Hey, come on,
don't let this stuff get between us.
I know it's been weird,
I'll make it up to you.
Let's do date nights again this week.
Yeah, real ones.
He settled into extra affection
over the next few days,
picking up pastries,
texting memes,
even suggesting a movie night.
For a moment,
I believed him.
Other hersals, though,
the pattern spun on his laughter
with Sierra to warm,
their conversations muffled
from across the green room.
Private touch has not
meant for anyone else to see.
A conge to his apologies
held onto his new attentions,
but underneath,
I knew something had slipped for good.
Trust,
once lost,
it's like a drop pearl
you might find it again,
but it never quite shines the same.
With show we can limit,
I tried to play the good spouse,
I baked,
I bizzied myself
with practicalities,
tried to focus on my own work.
But every time Marco's
phone paused with messages,
every time his laughter drifted
from the hallway at night,
I felt myself bracing,
waiting for the other shoe to drop.
One night,
unable to sleep,
I found myself pulling up all
photos on my phone,
Marco and I at Manhood
wrapped in wool scarves,
snowmelting on our eyelashes.
As in the audience
of his lost plate,
my head on his shoulder,
both of us laughing.
Standing enough,
first apartment kitchen,
hands covered in flyer,
Marco lifted me to reach the top shelf.
I pressed my finger to each screen,
unable to keep the question
from flaring
when I started being
another background character
in his new story.
After one late rehearsal,
I sat in the back of the theatre,
pretending to scroll my phone,
listening to Marco
and see error run lines.
The voices were low,
intimate,
even when the scene
called for distance.
I stayed late,
helping backstage,
watching for any
secret signals.
Sierra's lipstick
was fresh and obvious,
her smile always
flaring when Marco
entered the room.
I saw them passing
each of the notes,
stuffing giggles.
They shared coffee,
passing Sierra's mug
between them.
Once Sierra left
scoff behind
and Marco dripped
it across his bag,
smoothing the silk
as if it were precious.
I cornered Marco
on the drive home.
You two seemed close.
You're spending
a lot of time
together off stage two,
yeah?
Marco's face
barely twitched.
She's my stage wife,
attacking,
you jealous?
He nudged me,
half-hearted,
then turned up the radio,
ending the conversation.
I stood through the
windshield,
had let's catching rain.
The radio played
oldies,
Marvin Gaye,
crooning about love gun
wrong.
Each night,
my hope withered
a little more.
I felt it in my chest,
a contortion whenever
Marco laughed at his phone,
whenever Sierra
appeared at the fringe
of his not-just stories,
never clearly,
always blowed at the edge.
That last week,
the strain pressed
in from all sides.
Marco's absence
is the can-
he was always
off at cast dinners
with the group.
Never naming names,
always general,
always vague.
When I offered to join,
he'd sprinkle reassurance
as it's so boring,
babe, you'd fall asleep,
that's really just
theater gossip.
I owe you for skipping out,
that then slip on his coat,
running out the door
on a tide of enthusiasts,
and that felt like
it belonged to someone else.
Our dinners became
solitary.
I'd plate his food,
wait until the microwave
peep for the third time,
then eat alone,
scrolling for updates
from other friends,
trying desperately
not to check Sierra's
accounts for hints.
Some nights,
when Marco came home
already full,
smelling fiendy
of Jerry Wine
and powdery perfume,
he'd kiss my forehead
instead of my mouth.
Each time,
affinched.
Wednesday night,
Marco didn't come home
all his message simple,
to drive.
Sorry.
Love you see you tomorrow.
Asterisk, I lay in bed,
covers pull to my shoulders,
picturing him and Sierra
laughing on the neon
lit couch of some
after Ayersbaugh,
her hand on his thigh,
the gap between them
no longer deniable.
That next evening,
while folding laundry,
I found a scarf
tucked between his shirts
a silk wrap,
glittering with dread,
and mistakenly searers.
I pressed it to my nose,
her perfume,
heavy and sweet,
nearly overwhelming.
My hands shook
as I bundled it back
into the drawer,
and show whether to confront
Marco or wait for another lie.
I decided to wait
to let the evidence build.
I was afraid I was
inventing ghosts afraid too,
that I was being
made one by Marco's new
life.
I imagined that if I could
just catch him,
prove it or feedably,
I'd finally know what to do.
But even as I doubted,
Marco ramped up his
attentions,
bringing home bakery
caustasts,
squeezing my hands at random
intervals,
gushing over old
movies on the couch
on night he was home.
The affection was real
enough to confuse me,
but at rehearsals,
he never looked away
from Sierra,
not for long.
I nodded along to his
side, the certainty
was growing,
something had already
been broken.
I started to measure our
marriage and leftovers,
in empty bedsheets,
in a weight of a scarf
that wasn't mine
and a perfume I never wore.
I still wanted to
believe Marco,
wanted the storage
to resolve a
misunderstanding, a phase
a trick of my own
insecurity.
But every night,
as he vanished into his
phone, texting beneath the
covers or out on the
balcony in a drizzle,
I felt the end pulling
closer.
Still, I held my tongue.
I told myself,
one more day,
one more proof.
I wasn't ready yet
to face the truth,
I already felt
culling in my bones.
One more day,
one more proof.
I wasn't ready yet to
face the truth,
I already felt culling
in my bones.
That Saturday,
I told Marco I
might swing by after
rehearsal,
maybe meet the cast for
drinks half-daring,
have hopelessly
needy.
He hesitated the
smallest fraction,
aligning his keys
with the bowl by the
door.
It'll be late,
babe, and honestly,
kind of boring,
we're going over
lighting cues and
some notes,
probably pizza and
sandwiched.
I tilted my head
eye in him.
I can survive a little
fog machine drama,
or pizza.
I miss seeing you be
the fun one.
I tried to make
it a tease,
but my voice nagged.
He dropped a quick
kiss on my cheek
and squeezed my
shoulder.
Next week,
promise.
Then he was already
out,
jimbags long over one
shoulder,
sent trailing the height
and illa, powder,
the faintest chair
or something.
As the door closed,
I thought about
calling a friend
for destruction,
and he told me
that I was going to
kill his name.
I remembered the time I
told her how lucky I
was to have Marco.
How kind, how decent,
how about all those
dramas?
I put my phone down
and sat in the kitchen
surrounded by the echo
of my own faith.
10 p.m.
passed then 11.
I rushed my patients
by folding laundry,
watching the window
for headlights, scrolling
until my eyes
dropped.
When Marco finally
texted Astros
still stuck here,
CEO's car broke
down, we're helping
her you-be-home.
Don't wait
to bastard my
help.
I'm up Astros,
but he didn't answer.
It wasn't just the
secrecy anymore,
it was the care
with which he excused
the error and included
her in every problem
in solution.
She was in each
story of flat tire,
forgotten prop,
and inside joke I'd
only hear the trailing
punch line of.
The next day,
rehearsal ran into
the afternoon.
I decided half-spipful,
half-despft to show up
with snacks for the cast.
I crammed home a
brownies into a tin,
slayed on my
softer sweater, and
tipped the long
streak I'll ride to
the theatre, knitting my
top of activity made
me feel peripheral,
grew huddled around
light boards,
background actors
running their lines.
I hunted for Mako,
finding him finally
on stage,
sitting cross-legged
beside Seer.
The heads were
bowed together,
over a battered
skirt, hands nearly
touching.
I paused,
watching him laugh,
his real laugh,
the one that shook his
chest, the one I felt
wake me at night.
He said something,
Seer's hand lifted,
rested for a beat on his
wrist.
He didn't move it
away.
I clenched a brownie
on his wrist.
My voice was
too chipper,
and everyone stared as
if I'd stepped on to
the set and announced.
Seer looked up first,
smelled so
unradient.
Oh, you must be
Mako's wife,
I've heard so much
about you.
Her grip lingued on
Mako's wrist,
inward drew with a
flutter of her
manicured nails.
I saw all the
glint of her ring,
thick with an ammo,
white as icing.
Mako smiled at me,
only half-bear.
Hey, this is Seer,
Seer, this is Zoot.
He stumbled on my
name as if for a
moment he'd
wondered,
and he shot a glance
to Seer that didn't
need words.
I forced it
cheerful,
nice to finally meet
you, I hope you're
keeping him in line.
Seer laughed
a son that rolled
up like honey.
More like the other way
around, to be honest.
The conversation
fizzled,
drained by the obvious
energy crackling
between them.
Mako thanked me for the
brownies, and in the
swirl of pleasantries
it was clear, I was
set dressing, another
prop.
I drifted to the
back, dropped the
brownie Tim with the
others, and watched
him.
I had only
fragments, run
over the morning,
seen again.
Sure, after I
still think we could
did, I left as the
son went down, the
weight in my stomach
more clawing
than hunger.
That evening,
Mako came home with a
bag of takeout.
Figured you'd be
tired of cooking, he
announced, shrugging
out of his coat.
We had a
late lunch at
rehearsal, but I bought
your favorite.
He watched my face
carefully, as he
set the cotton down, like
a magician, hoping
not to be caught
up.
I tried to conjure
our old routine,
desperate for some
familiar warm.
Want to watch a
movie?
I asked.
I could pick one of
the bad ones you
love.
I have to run lines
first.
Maybe later, he
replied, already halfway
to the bedroom
scrolling.
Don't wait up.
Later, when I
crept in, the hum of his
voice build from under the
bathroom door, punctured
it with muffled
laughter.
Yeah, no, I can't.
That would be
insane.
Friday's risky
already know.
He caught my eyes
startled, then thought
into a smile.
Couldn't sleep
figured I tried to get
some lines stuck in
my head.
The big scene is a
killer.
I watched him sorting
through his scripts
with deliberate calm,
willing myself to
believe him, but the
scene vibrated wrong.
Even the way he stacked
his pages was
unfamiliar, hurried, almost
panicked.
That week blurred the
same rhythms over
corrected care during the
day, wall splintering
at night.
I kept baking, kept
bringing pastries, kept
showing up, refusing to
be a race from the story
of my own life.
I waited a seeer
except from a coffee
mug of doc lipstick
kinking the rim.
She handed the mug
to Marco, who drank
without a word.
The gesture was so
intimate to her to
look at.
Later, I found the
mug on the greenoom
sink, the same lipstick.
Marco's
fingerprints smudge
beside it.
I gathered my
proof-like broken
glass, afraid to touch
any piece too closely.
When the show finally
opened, the theatre
filled with the hum
of friends and
families.
I sat in the
fourth row, pretending
to forget the
weeks of distance, the
scene.
I let myself
believe in the
illusion, but whenever
he faced seeer, the
air between them, scene
charge, private, the
queues laden with
something more than
rehearsal.
When seeer leaned
into his gesture during
their love scene, he
pressed his hand to her
cheek not the stage
direction, but a caress
I'd known for years.
My cheek
spurned.
A plow scattered
around me, but I felt
brittle, barely holding
together.
After the bows, I
waited for him in the
lobby.
He emerged, sweating
and exhilarated, surrounded
by casmets.
When I put my arm around
Marko's waist, he
startled, then made a
quick show of pressing a
kiss to my hair.
Star of the show, he
introduced, voice too
loud.
We drove home in
silence Marko's hand
never leaving the
wheel.
While some crowd
tonight, he said after
a while.
You see mom and dad?
Anotted, looking out
at rain's mirror glass.
They loved it.
Seeer was really
impressive too.
He grunted, tapping his
thumbs on the steering
wheel.
Yeah, she's a pro.
Mix things
easier.
A stoplight is
on buzzed.
The cough filled with
the faint sound of
laughter his.
Then seeer's
ringtone he silenced
it before I could
look.
At home, he vanished
into the shower,
closed bald in the
sink.
Soared in the laundry
later, I found an
napkin crumpled in a
pocket of his
jeans thick with
lipstick.
A curl of
handwriting I
didn't recognize,
asterisk you killed
it tonight.
See you after?
Asterisk.
I sat on the edge of
the bed, napkin crushed
in my fist, breath
rattling in my chest.
It all built next
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On Sunday, when I
slipped up and asked
coffee before you head
to the matinee, he
looked at his phone
and replied,
oh, Sierra's got
car trouble again.
I'm giving her a
lift. We need to go
over the new blocking
lines anyway.
His smile was
apologetic, practiced.
Love you, don't
wait up.
There was always
a reason, always
night out.
I watched him one
morning, the
Monday after closing, we
can scratching his
chin in the steamy
bathroom area, still
humming some inside
jokite never heard.
I passed him a
towel, wishing for one
moment of real
transparency.
But when his eyes
met mine, he
slid away again, humming
louder.
Something in me
hard in that week, I
started looking for
records.
Marco's passwords
had changed again, locking
up his phone, his
laptop, even his
spot fellist.
I started watching the
bank account process
that made me
afraid of finding
something.
The transactions were
all there, lift
rides at midnight
across the river,
reservations at wine
bars, fancy dinners
for two.
Each time I
wanted to believe the
story, someone's birthday,
some after-party, something
harmless.
Tuesday morning, I
worked before him by
accident the whole we
called on my bare
feet. I heard muffled
giggling from the
kitchen-mocko on the
phone, voice-pitch-low,
whispering, and no, she
still asleep.
Yeah, last night was
perfect to miss you
already, Friday
definitely.
I stood frozen at
his back.
When he heard me
shuffle, he snapped his
phone close, smile
suddenly wide and
forced.
Hey, Europa,
couldn't sleep. He
swept me into a loose
hug, chin dusting my
hairline, but his
hand trembled against my
back. I let it all
pass, pretending at
warmth while his lie
hung in the air
between us. He
left for work not long
after, was thing a
song I didn't
recognize. I
stood in the kitchen
stillness, feeling the
room's elongate, every
inch of our life
blurred at the edges. I
walked to the theatre
that night and
announced, no text and
cluddled in my jacket
against a shop and
assistant wind. The
rehearsal space was
dark, empty except for
cleaning staff.
Castin ended early, the
janitor told me, voice
vague. I think they all
headed for a drink
somewhere else. I'm sure
what pulled me, I
wandered to the bar block
away, the kind Marco
never went to too
bouchy for his
tastes. I pressed my
face to the cold
window. There was
Marco, tucked into a
corner booth, shattered
in low light. Sears
at, crossed from him, had
tilted, her laugh to
glowing. They held
hands and whined only
as a server passed, and
then drew close again as
if compelled. Marco
leaned in, whispering, his
gaze fixed on hers.
Then he's a line, neither
noticing the rest of the
world. Sear reached over,
tracing his jaw, then
kissed him a quick practice
pecked up broke no
surface tension, only
deepened it. Marco's
mild, his hand tightening
on hers. I could have
watched forever, numb and
electrified all at once.
Instead, I stepped away, boot
scuffing on wet pavement, my
pulse roaring in my ears. I
felt at once weightless
and crushed. The walk home
was endless. My hands
clenched inside my pockets,
fingertips pinch tied over
the cold band of my
wedding ring. When Marco
came in that night later
than ever, his hair encolmed.
Showed half and tucked
out was waiting in the
kitchen, hands wrapped around
a chipmog of teacon cold. He
froze. Year up late. His
voice was too steady. I
didn't move. Where were
you? He busied himself
with the mail, screen-turning
over in his palm, never
looking at me. Adam wanted
to go for drinks, sear-
attacked along, long
night, sorry. I set down
the mug, each word measured. I
saw you at Lake Avenue
Wine Bar. It was just the
two of you. He blinked, face
closing like a fist. It's
not to look. It's not what
it looked like. I stood
relentless now. I watched
you. I saw her kiss you. You
were holding hands. I don't
care about the story. Just
tell me. What is going on? He
threw up his hands, voice
starting too loud. It's
nothing. All right. You're
making this into a god. It was
a joke. We all went up
first and everyone left early.
Sear was upset. She just
broke up with her boyfriend
and it. I stared him down. My
voice flat. Don't lie. Not
now. Marcos said, robbing
his face. I never meant for it
to happen. I didn't. She
look. It was stupid. Okay. I
swear we just got close with
the show. It just happened. My
throat burned. How close was
it just tonight? He kept his
eyes shut, breathing hard. It
wasn't just tonight. It started
a few weeks ago. I didn't
plan it. She just I felt alive
again, like the parts of me I
couldn't reach anymore. He has
started up my neck, but I will
them back. Parts you couldn't
share with me. He shook his
head, desperate. That's not
what I meant. You, your my best
friend. I didn't want to lose
us. I thought maybe I could
keep both. I pressed, did you
sleep with her? A long
silence. Then a tiny nod. And
you lied to me, a verren over.
Each phrase landed like a stone.
He burst out. I didn't want to
hurt you. I thought if the show
ended, so would this. I tried to
stop, but I. I cut him off
shaking, cold with clarity. You
made the choice to every night.
Every time you looked me in the
eyes and lied, there's no accident
here. He reached for me as red.
Let me fix this, please. I love you.
Let's talk. I step back, letting
space between us widen. There was
nothing to talk about, Marco. He
tripped after me as I walked down the
hall to the bedroom, voice cracking.
Please, we can figure this out. I swear.
I'll end it. I'll do anything. Just
talk to me, please. Just did. I swept
clothes into a suitcase with shaking
hands, not bothering to fold
a sword. My ring burned in my pocket
heavy and cold. Every heartbeat
was a drum in my ears. Marco
blocked the doorway to
soaking his cheeks. Don't go.
Please, don't go. I was an
idiot. That doesn't mean you. I brush
past him, voice low and final. I'm
going to Julie's. Don't call. Don't
text. I need distance. He stood in
the kitchen, silent now, staring at the
dinner I laid out eyes ago and touched
and already cold. At the door,
suitcase rattling behind me, I
post just long enough to breathe in
the quiet. I let myself look at him
one last time last. Broken. The pieces
of our life scattered around him. I
pulled the door gently shut, feeling the
weight of my ring in my hand and stepped
into the chill of the night. The air sharp
on my skin as I walked down the empty
street, knowing nothing in my life
would ever be the same. My wheels
scraped the pavement and they pulled my
suitcase behind me. The air dampen
were all my cheeks. Each exhale
blew me in the dark. I didn't look
back, not when Marco shouted after me,
not when I heard the front door click
shut, not even when my phone buzzed
and buzzed in my pocket as name
rising and falling, as if trying to
break through a wall that had already
sealed between us. The street lamp at the
corner flicker taft heartedly as I stopped
to steady myself, gripping the useless
handle of my bag. For a moment, I just
stood there, but quiet broken only by the
hum of distant traffic in the soft, at going
click of my phone against my leg. I dial
Julie. She picked up halfway through the
first ring. I'm coming over, I said,
voice thick as old honey. She didn't ask
for details, just said, the guess sheets
are clean, doors unlocked. That simple
permission to lock something brittle
inside me, I'd write myself to the
cub and waited for a ride, head bowed, avoiding
any glance back at the building, the window
is now mostly dark day for the faint glow
from our kitchen. The car rides gripped
by insolence. The driver made light talk
about the rain, the construction on
Halforn, asked if I needed to heat turned
up. I shook my head, clutching the
bathed suitcase closer, guiding my mind away
from Marco, his voice, his scent, his
please. Instead, I fixed my gaze in the
blurred city lights, watched them stutter
and string together into shapes that made
no sense. Julie opened the door before I
could even knock. She took one look at my
face and took me indoors, guided me to
the couch, pressed a mug of tepety into my
hands. I tried to speak, tried to explain
what should have been obvious, but my
voice failed, splintered into row syllables.
She didn't force me to fill the space.
Instead, she rummaged for blankets, covered
my knees, kept talking softly about her
neighbor's cat and a new boat can nearby.
I let her words wash over me, staring at the
mug in my lap, the ring still digging into
my pocket. A strange stillness settled.
I watched as Julie's apartment filled with
the silence as I'd spent weeks trying to
ignore. This space was cramped, cluttered in
a way that made a fill safe sock strapped over the
back of a chair, a dental bill stuck to the
fridge. I realized with a pan that I'd been
holding my breath for weeks, maybe longer,
fighting a war against the knowledge of
Marco's betrayal that now felt and
containable. Every sound from my phone stung
three calls from Marco, then six, then rap attacks
that started polite, then edged into panic.
I turned off notifications, face turned to the
cushion, wishing sleep would come. But
even with Julie hovering nearby and a casserole
smell creeping in from her kitchen to eat kept
its distance. Instead, I laid there, teeth pressed
together, my mind looping through every detail of the
mug, the scoff, the receipts, the lipstick, the way
his voice sounded when he lied. Morning pressed in a
gray insolven. Julie left quietly for work, a
notes girl done the microwave, asterisk whatever
you need. Take as long as you want. Asterisk has
set up, stomach hollow, maftry, bring catching up
to the reality of what I'd done. Each ordinary thing
the shower curtain, the cold towel floor, the spare
toothbrush felt wrong, bored. Everything I touched
seemed to vibrate with the wrongness of being
somewhere that was my own home. The eggs spun new
edges, I had no clean clothes except what I'd
managed to throw haphazardly into my back. I found
my arms trembling as I tried to entangle a clump of
sweaters. I washed my face ignoring the ghost of
mascara smeared onto my eyes and refused to let
myself cry again, not yet. At noon, hundred crept
in, mechanical and uninvited. I picked at the
casserole, let the cheese cool into ridges, my body
refusing to accept come for chief and fruit
seemed like a betrayal. The day was colorless, the
city outside muffled by drizzle and the muffling
wall pervacillation. Each time a car went by, I
imagined Marco pacing the kitchen, pressing
redial, imagining apologies that no longer had a
home. By late afternoon, he tried again from a
block number. The screen blinked with the vague
thread of a myeletic ring counted every beat
then blocked it too. I always began to pour
together. I walked Julie's block, raining
kneeling my face, passing jokers and old men carrying
groceries, none of whom cared about the ruins
scraping right behind my sternum. Returning to the
apartment, I saw Marco's face in every
shaped dark hair, the set of shoulders, the way he'd
once waited for me under umbrellas. I tried to
shake off the memories, focusing on the brass
key turning in the strange lock, the squeaks in
Julie's hallway I'd never notice before. That
night, I tried to sleep again on her couch,
listening to the city's russus hum. I replayed
a final beat and I'll kitchen the curve of Marco
shoulder as he crumpled, his foreshaded by panic
and gil, my own flight at the door. I found
no comfort, only the ache of absence where
trust had once lived impermeable between us.
I'm warning, the loneliness had acquired a kind
of substance or weight pressing and every
time I checked my phone. Over night, Marco's
message shifted he begged for a chance to talk,
apologize and broken grandma, try to...
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Playing that thing's a garden out of hand. His
words alternated between desperation and sorrow, then
stepped into anger when I didn't respond. He
wrote asterisk he can't just disappear. We're
not done. Asterisk then, softer, asterisk
please. I need you. Asterisk each message
stung, but rather than drawing me back, the
hallowed me out further. Chewly came home in the
evening, arms full of take-out and easy for
giving presents. She gave me space but also fed
me, handed me a glass of cheap wine, sculled
mindlessly through terrible TV together as a
press num laughter from somewhere inside. But
nothing in her warmth could fix what felt
flash and unfixable. When I close my eyes, I could
see Marcos face in the amber kitchen light, how
every protest, every lie I tried to stitch up a
wound he had already sliced too deep. The next
afternoon, a cost of my absence arrived all at once.
A message from my boss, asterisk mister
weekly report. Everything okay? Asterisk
my work laptop still sat on our coffee table,
surrounded by scripts and sticky notes. Panicked
twitched in my limbs. I rehearse it doesn't
have truce, then responded. Asterisk family
emergency, sorry we'll send back tomorrow. Asterisk
Julie offered to drive me back to the apartment to pick
up my things, but I refused. I couldn't bear the
idea of walking back in and seeing Marcos
shape outlined by the window or worse, seeing all my
things entouched, evidence of how instantly we'd
come unstitched. Instead, I asked her to text
him, I couldn't bring myself to use his name. Please
put my work laptop and backpack in the entry. I'll
come by in the morning. No, I don't want to see
you. No, I'm not ready to talk. Julie press
her hand, her fist troubled, but she squeezed my arm
and promised to come with me if I wanted. You don't
have to go alone, she said, voice grave. I told
her I'd be fine. I wasn't sure, but I didn't want
to pull her further into my disaster. That night,
Marcos' flood of messages began to worsen. At first,
more apologies than confusion than no completing. Asterisk
you left too fast. I need to explain. I can't sleep.
Can we talk, please? Asterisk then, ten minutes
later, Asterisk, I don't even know what to do right
now. I'm lost. Don't you care? Asterisk then, a
flurry of miss calls, all ignored. When I checked
social media, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No sign
of Sierra, no new tags, just a cast photo from closing
night. Marcos was in the middle, arms around both
Adam and Sierra, all three smiling, but I saw the
stiffness in Sierra's shoulder, the carefully posed
space between her and Marcos. I wondered whether anyone
else saw the crack, or if all cracks always looked
invisible to anyone but the people sounding on them.
I went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face,
and tried to prepare for the coming morning, the
nerves that already raised welts along my chest, the
knowledge that stepping-foot inside our apartment
would reopen every bruise. When I woke,
gorilla drifted through the blinds. I dressed in
cold silence and breeze myself as Julie drove me across
town, navigating side street slick with drizzle,
every block drawing me closer to that silent theatre
that had become my life. Outside our building,
I paused, letting Julie pull me into a hug.
I'll wait in the car, she said, handing over my
spare keys. Text when you're done, okay?
I pulled my coat tighter, backpacks slin over my
shoulder, suitcase trailing after me. The entry
smelled the same old dust, faded lilies from some
neighbor's memorial months later. On shaky legs, I
climbed the stairs and stopped outside our door hot
wild throughout thick with dread. There, right where
I'd asked, sat my work laptop, charge a coil beside
it. My favourite mug balanced in a paper bag on top
as if Marcos wanted to apologise with a token of
familiarity. The door itself was closed, silent no
sign of Marcos inside, but the air seemed thick
with the memory of our final scene. I grabbed my
things, jammed the mug into my coat pocket, unturned.
I'm willing to pause a breath enough away any
longer than I had to. Back in Julie's car, I let my
head fold to the window, watched the city slip past,
feeling the ache of having everything I'd once
called home reduced to a collection of objects in a
backpack. Julie squeezed my hand on the drive,
neither of us speaking, the weight of what I'd
lost making the air heavy. I sent the work report,
pretended to care about the spreadsheet, let the
iris advance. But every so often, I checked my phone
half expecting even now something like a miracle. An
apology good enough to heal a wound, a reason that
made Dibitreo understandable. But Marcos sent
nothing for those few iris. Even the silence stabbed.
I remembered the box in our closet, filled with
photos in the Mentos match from road trips, splinted
paddle from a canoe, the first playable marker I'd
ever want to lead in. For a breath, I longed for that
comfort, but then my throat seized up, remembering how
much of it now felt counterfeit. That evening, just as
Julie started dinner, my phone vibrated again. This
time, it was a number I didn't recognize.
Asterisk, I know you don't want to talk, but I'm
so sorry. I'm not asking for you to come back.
You deserve better than what I did. I wish I
couldn't do it. Tell Julie not to worry about me.
I'll sleep elsewhere tonight. Asterisk. It was too
little, too late to sliver of decency after all his
frantic pleas. After all the ways he tried to
call me back without ever really making it right.
I set my phone to do not disturb, poured myself
another glass of wine, and watched as dusk
settled over the city, Portland's light flickering
short distances, lighting up nothing beyond a few
tantalizing feet. The tension eased out of me
and unpredictable, uneven pulses grieve mingling
with numbness, anger cloud in over a sorrow,
relief jagged as a winter branch. I realized I'd
spent so many nights willing myself not to see
what was right in front of me, and now my vision
was clear to clear a sharp enough to cut skin.
Julie taught me through another night offering
cookies and mindless distraction, but sleep was still
evasive. I stared at the ceiling, arms crossed,
wishing for emptiness. I morning I was so
run out, I barely noticed the ache in my jaw the
way I clenched my teeth all night. The next
morning brought a fresh cascade of anxieties.
My mother called, demanding to know why Makka
sounded so upset and abrupt on the phone
last time she called. Did I know something was
wrong? She went on about how much work I must
have, how relationships aren't easy, how people
change and grow. I answered her softly, telling her
I was fine, that Makka needed space, that things
were complicated right now. She started to press,
but I stared her away, unwilling to lay the truth
at her feet just yet. Meanwhile, texts from
mutual friends started landing, not to try
questions, just test and check ins.
Astros K haven't seen you post a bit.
Everything good? Astros Gora, Astros Marcos
are just staying at Julie's. Want to hang out
sometime? Astros, their phrasing was cautious
like they saw me on a ledge and were afraid
a strong word might send me topping. The very
reality of being separated from Makka became
more suffocating as the day went by. With every
little reminder, every mist habit, the cost of
this fracture multiplied a shared bills, the apartment
lease, the groceries, I'd never eat, the plans
we'd made for the next vacation, the no-endred
of what would happen to our stupid catch-shape
soap-to-spenser and that old green couch would
fought so hard to fit through the entryway.
I tried to call the leasing office, stumbling
through the question of whether I could
sublet what it would take to extricate
myself from the list of names. The woman
on the other end sounded practiced and
personal, and told me, you'll need
signatures from both parties to change
anything official. The simple plan is of those
words done. Julie brought home a fresh
stack of groceries where to support heavy
and every string bag. She made pasta, cracked
jokes about old sitcoms, and let me fall
silent when I couldn't muster any reply.
I chipped at dinner, serring at my hands as
if they belonged to someone else. As dusk
fell, I watched the light flicker across the
river, feeling the prickle of not-blowning
wherever I sat. My head pounded with
exhaustion from three nights without rest.
I sculled mindlessly through photos on my
phone memories I'd once treasured now
heavy stones in my palm. Then, just after
nine, a knock came at Julie's door-soft
uncertain, instantly tightening every
muscle in my spine. For a fevered moment,
I was sure it was Marco come to plead one last
time to try to talk his way back into my
life. Julie rose first, whispering,
she used the door open, exchanged a few
quick words with someone unseen, then
returned, relief in her face, the neighbor
had delivered him a saliva package, nothing
more. But my nerves wouldn't settle. I
realized how tightly I'd been waned, how much
of me expected the crisis to slide back and
through any door, any silence. I sat on the
edge of the couch, knuckles pressed to my
lips, a shivering static filling my head. It
was as though every eye or away from Marco
made to break more real, less fixable. I
wandered the apartment, desperate for calm,
yearning and fearing a further confrontation.
My body felt brace for impact with every
step. Quite again, I sat at Julie's desk,
staring down a hundred and answer texts from
Marco, most already deleted. The last one,
Sullen read, waited at the top.
Astros could give you as much space as you need.
Astros, the black words on the grey
bubble as final as anything he'd ever said. I
scrolled through photos, shuffling even old
messages from Julie and my mom from before
all of this, searching for solid ground. My
gaze landed in the wedding photo I'd used as a
homescreen a frozen moment in the roses
outside City Hall, Marco's hand in mine,
neither of us knowing. I pressed my thumb to
the image until it blew, then, hard pounding
changed it to a picture of the river instead.
Julie watched me from the armchair, her eyes
gentle, no questions. I swallowed twice,
brace myself, and dug my wedding ring from
the pocket of my coat where I shoved it days
ago in that final, shuddering retreat. I
stood and crossed to the window, my hand
closing around the cold, to move gold. My
thumb tracing the little notch Marco had
made one night drumming it on our nightstand.
The city outside swirled with evening buses
groaning, rain flickering in headlights,
Portland humming along, everyone else's
lives as intact as ever. At that window, I
let myself cry not the choking silent tears
from before, but a real, wracking kind of
grief, more to something final, irreversible.
Julie watched, then, wordlessly, set a box
of tissues on the silver side me and stepped away.
I let every muscle and clench, my breath heaving
until I could taste salt at the back of my throat.
When the tears edged, I stood tall
of shoulder squaring. I pressed the wedding ring
into my palm, squeezing until my fingers
hurt, and finally opened my hand above the
kitchen's ink. For a moment, I let the gold
glint in the last of the light, saw every
compromise and promise flicker in its curve. I
said the wedding ring quietly on the sill,
stepped back, and laughed at gleaming there,
and touched. The night pressed in, cool on
silent, the kitchen humming softly behind me.
I watched the city lights pulse in the
rain street glass and understood for the first
time that the silence was my own. And
that is the end. Thank you for listening,
and I will see you in the next one.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in the next one.
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True Cheating Wives and Girlfriends Stories 2026 - True Cheating Stories Podcast
