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It’s really like the crosswords that Celia does everyday in the paper. One answer tips you off to the next, until finally you’ve solved the entire puzzle and realized you’ve wasted your entire morning. Except in this case, it wasn’t just a morning, it was more like six years. It wasn’t strange to Celia when Roger was spending more time “entertaining clients” or going on “team building weekends.” Unfortunately Celia had to see it with her own eyes. She was supposed to be at Knitting Night until around ten but that questionable tuna salad for lunch was fate in the form of a rotten sandwich. There was no lit candles or an uncorked bottle of wine for Celia to slowly uncover the mystery of the evening. It was more like an instant “thwap” on the side of the head with a cast iron skillet. All she wanted to do was put on her sweats, and watch some Tivo’d Grey’s Anatomy. But standing in the doorway, Celia saw angles and positions of Roger’s body that in six plus years of dating she had never been privy to.

No one tells you about the nausea that never goes away. Or the mental replaying of that scene. Or going back in your head, uncovering all the half-truths and the manipulations that guided your unsuspecting life for so many years. Roger didn’t even question it and by the weekend had moved all his stuff out of the apartment. And after Roger had finally left, walking around the house with her red, puffy eyes, Celia gazes at the bed. Ruffled sheets that the woman must have slept in. A mattress that this woman must have cuddled him in. With all the strength Celia had left, she tore through the bedspreads and box spring and threw everything onto the street, while weeping.

That night, without even a bed or a blanket, Celia slept better than she had in years.

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