So, my boyfriend cheated. He cheated on our kitchen table, the one I bought us, and then had the audacity to kick me out of our apartment. Our apartment. He said he never wanted to see my face again. One minute, we were planning a future, the next, my world was in pieces on the linoleum. I barely remember packing, just the blur of tears and the metallic taste of panic. The next day, still reeling, still numb, I dragged myself to work. I’m a waitress at the diner downtown. My hands shook as I poured coffee, my smile felt like it was tearing my face. I just needed to get through the shift. Just needed to earn enough to figure out where I’d sleep next. Then, the bell over the door chimed. And there he was. My ex. And with him, a woman.
They walked in, hand in hand, looking like they owned the place. Like they owned me. He saw me immediately. A flicker of something, maybe surprise, maybe triumph, crossed his face before he settled into a smirk. The woman beside him, beautiful and cold, just stared. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. This can’t be happening. They chose my section. ON PURPOSE.
My manager, oblivious to the silent war, sent me to their table. I approached them, my breath catching in my throat. “What can I get for you two?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. He leaned in close to her, whispered something that made her laugh, a bright, cruel sound. She ordered, looking straight through me. He just watched. Just smiled.
It got worse. Much worse. He made me pick up a fork he’d deliberately dropped. They laughed. They spilled soup on me, not accidentally, I swear, and watched me clean it up, my face burning with shame. He kept touching her hand, his thumb tracing patterns on her skin, exactly the way he used to do to mine. Every gesture was a dagger. Every shared glance, a mockery. They didn’t even try to hide it. They wanted me to see. They wanted me to break.
And I did. I served their dessert, my eyes stinging, my vision blurring. I took their payment, his hand brushing mine, sending a jolt of disgust through me. I watched them walk out, feeling like a ghost. As soon as the door chimed shut, I collapsed. I stumbled back to the bar, my legs giving out. I slid to the floor, behind the counter, hidden by the dark wood and the clatter of plates. The tears finally came, hot and endless, carving paths through the grime on my face. I was crying under the bar when I looked up, through the blurry haze of my pain, and saw a picture frame on the shelf. It was an old photo of the diner’s owner, and her family. A faded snapshot from years ago. And there, smiling, a little girl on the owner’s lap. Beside her, a man. And standing next to the man, an older girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her face was clearer now, through the tears. HER FACE WAS THE WOMAN’S FACE. The one who had just walked out with my ex. The one who had just mocked me. The shock wasn’t that she was the owner’s daughter. It was that the man she was standing next to, beaming proudly, WAS MY EX-BOYFRIEND. IN A WEDDING TUXEDO. AND ON HER FINGER, A WEDDING RING. Not just his new girl. HIS WIFE. And for months, I was the other woman. The fool. The secret. MY GOD, I WAS THE OTHER WOMAN ALL ALONG.
