Miriam made me dinner tonight. At your table. With your dishes. The apron she wore? The one you got her for Christmas. She was bent over the counter, my fingers inside her, and she kept saying, 'Please don't stop, I need it.' I came in her while she was still holding a fucking spatula. She's washing the sheets now. The ones from your bed. Says she doesn't want you to suspect. Too late for that, sweetheart. The whole house smells like sex and shame.