Undershirt

Last week, he took off his undershirt when he got into bed and I saw a smear of something on his back.

I reached to wipe it away but it stayed, neat and permanent. Another woman’s name tattooed right there.

When? I wanted to ask. Why? But my mouth was dry.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t explain.

I got up from the bed. I wanted to scream and throw things and beat him with my fists, but I didn’t. I put on my clothes.

He’d said he loved me but he’d tattooed another woman’s name on his skin.

He watched from the bed and said nothing.

I left the motel room and went home to my husband. He was on the sofa, watching sports.

I sat down next to him and cried softly.

I’m so sad, I said.

He put his arm around me and pulled me close. Forget it, he said, let’s watch the game.

By Karen Levy

Fury