The Other Woman Knew My Name

David said he was leaving her. He said the marriage was paperwork and habit. He said I was the reason he could breathe.

I believed him because wanting to is a skill.

At the farmer's market on Saturday, a woman with his eyes stopped in front of my tomatoes.

"You're Lena," she said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"I'm Sarah. David's wife."

My stomach dropped through the earth.

"We should talk."

We talked at a bench with coffee neither of us drank. She was not cruel. That was worse.

"He told me about you six months ago," she said. "He said it was ending. It didn't end."

"I didn't know."

"I believe you."

She left with her bag. I left with shame that had geometry.

I ended it by text. David called forty times. I blocked him.

Six months later I saw Sarah again—different market, nod only.

Being the other woman is a story people tell with villains. Sometimes everyone is tired. Sometimes the villain is the lie, not the people.

I date slowly now. I ask about rings early.

I still flinch at farmers' markets.

Growth is not clean. It is just direction.