The phone rings, startling both of us. Glancing at the clock while you fumble for the phone, I can see that it is eight o'clock -- bedtime for those who leap out of bed at three in the morning for work. Anticipating a business call, I lay quietly beside you waiting patiently.
I'm still not sure at what point I realized it was her. Maybe it was the choppy English you used so she would understand. Maybe it was your tone of voice. Maybe it was because you didn't ever leave bed for your planner or a scrap of paper. Or perhaps it was because I just knew.
For some reason, I'm not sure why I wasn't able to contain myself that night. Every other mention of her has been played off by me as if it were no big deal. But that night... That night I cried. I wanted to scream and yell or even just say something loud enough so she would hear me in the background. But I didn't. Instead, I rolled away from you while dragging blankets and sheets to nestle in. I felt sick.
On one hand you had a female on the phone who was excited to talk to you, and on the other you had a female lying next to you in bed silently sobbing.
(This must be the beginning of the end.)
I hate being the other woman.
--s10