She pouted as she said it, that particular brand of wifely complaint, half whine, half flirtation. Perfectly calibrated. Not too much, not too little.
She kicked off the covers, padded barefoot over to me, and straightened my collar. Then she unpacked my overstuffed bag and reorganized it properly.
She did it all with quiet focus, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Honey, at least eat breakfast before you go?"
"No time. The train won't wait."
She didn't push it.
At the door, she rose on her tiptoes, one hand curling around the back of my neck, and pressed her lips to mine.
A deep kiss.
Her lips were still soft, carrying that particular warmth of early morning.
She kissed me like she meant it, the tip of her tongue tracing the outline of my lips, slow and deliberate, like she was completing some kind of ritual.
Same as always.
"Be safe out there."
She stood in the doorframe wearing that silk camisole nightgown, smiling at me.
I nodded, turned, and stepped into the elevator.
The moment the doors closed, her smile vanished into the narrowing gap.
I took a cab to the train station and found a corner seat in the waiting hall.
I opened my phone and logged into Messenger.
My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds.
Then I tapped into her social media feed.
Rufus's name wasn't in the recent visitors list. Or rather, he was probably using a burner account I'd never recognize.
But in the activity feed, the latest entry was crystal clear.
Fifteen minutes ago.
Marjorie had planted two cabbages in FarmVille.
Something seized my chest and squeezed, inch by inch, tighter and tighter.
Cold spread from my sternum out to my limbs. Even my fingertips went numb.
I stared at those two virtual cabbages sitting quietly on the screen, bright green and plump, their pixelated leaves almost garish against the plain little plot of farmland. Next to them were the carrots and corn she'd planted, neat rows, clearly tended every day.
She really was obsessed with that game. Never missed a day.
I used to tease her about it. Told her nobody still played browser games from the Stone Age, that it was ancient history.
She'd laugh and swat my arm. You don't get it. It's nostalgic.
Now I understood.
The nostalgia was real.
It just had nothing to do with the game.
I sat there for a while, then left the train station.
I hailed another cab and went back to the apartment complex.