Worst case, I'd just marry someone else.
——
My wife called out of nowhere to say she was working late and couldn't make it home for dinner.
As luck would have it, a buddy of mine hit me up, so we decided to grab some barbecue together.
As we passed a restaurant, he pointed at the table near the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Doesn't that woman look like your wife?"
I squinted. It was only a view of her back, but I recognized Fiona Prescott instantly.
Across from her sat the young assistant who'd joined the company less than a month ago.
Job Fox frowned slightly, staring at the half-eaten bowl of fried rice in front of him with a helpless expression.
Fiona saw this and smiled indulgently. She reached over, picked up his leftover rice, and shoveled it into her mouth in a few quick bites. Not a single grain left.
I froze.
Fiona had severe germaphobia. In three years of marriage, we had never once shared a dish.
One time, I'd picked up a piece of fish for her and placed it in her bowl, forgetting to use the serving chopsticks.
She dumped the entire bowl of rice along with the fish straight into the trash. The whole plate of fish I'd touched with my chopsticks? She didn't take a single bite.