The Pain We Carry
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Summary
Jason walked in as I was eating hotpot alone on the rug. Though I knew he'd already dined, I kept my eyes on the simmering broth. He sat silently on the sofa edge - the quiet so deep I heard my slotted spoon drip. I timed my Wagyu slice perfectly: five seconds, then a light soy dip. The absurd scene: a woman in evening gown, kneeling at a low table devouring hotpot.
Our downtown penthouse, once a marital home, was now mostly my solitary space. I cooked vegetables meticulously while he sat wordless beside me. Only when full did I rise, leaving the mess for Maria.
In the bathroom, I removed the barely visible black mourning band from my sleeve. Folding it, my reflection caught me. As I reached for the bedroom knob, he finally spoke.
