He was sitting at the table. My husband. And across from him was a girl younger than our daughter. Peter held her hand in his and looked at her the way he once looked at me.
A symposium in Moscow. Bad coffee. A ficus I was supposed to water. Lies. Every word he said this morning was a lie.
My hands took the plate of pumpkin soup—his favorite—and dumped it over his head. An orange mess poured down his face, splattered his glasses and his expensive suit.
Our story ended. But mine was only beginning.