Him

The waiting is the worst thing.

Worse than police officers knocking on your door while you’re having dinner with your wife, informing you as the steak in your stomach liquefies, that you’ve been accused of rape. Worse, even, than the look in your wife’s eyes when you admit that, yes, you slept with someone, but it meant nothing.

Worse than protesting your innocence to a bunch of strangers, like that stuck up old woman with the pearls. Her lips curled into a sneer when I called that bitch out for what she is. When I said she’d been pestering me all night in a slutty outfit, then jumped into my taxi uninvited and took me back to her place. When I described her saying she loved me afterwards, and going hysterical when I said I’m married.