His Monday And Wednesday Mistresses

Summary

I watched my husband, Warren, place his hand on the small of another woman’s back while riding the glass escalator at the galleria. It wasn’t a casual brush. His thumb stroked the curve of her waist through silk, a practiced, rhythmic caress I knew down to the millimeter.

I trailed them to the subterranean parking garage, where the afternoon turned surreal. Going into the elevator lobby, she had cascading dark waves and cherry-red lipstick. When she stepped out four minutes later, she had transformed—a sleek blonde bob, dark sunglasses, a trench coat pulled tight.