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The first thing she saw was him. It was always the first thing she saw. His eyes, his height, the stubble on his face that mysteriously was always exactly the most attractive length. She hated him as much as she was obsessed by him. Notice she didn’t say that she loved him. This felt nothing like love. And certainly not like reciprocal love. This was something else entirely. An addiction. A craving for something you wish you didn’t want as much as you wanted it.

The last thing he ever saw was her. This she knew. Intimately. The way his eyes glided over her as if she had been greased. As if there was nothing on her that might catch his attention. Some mornings she showered for an hour, trying to wash away some of that grease. Scrubbing her skin with the loofah until it tingled and burned.

Every word she had ever spoken to him would fill one page. Every word he’d said to would fill half a page, and only if she printed the letters really large. Which of course, she had. Testing her theory. Demonstrating the shameful truth that she had memorized every one of these meager offerings.

The second thing she always saw was his wife. The woman she’d spent a decade referring to as her best friend. As her soulmate on the occasions when the two of them were drunk. Which was something they did in the early days, get drunk together. Right up until she married him.