The Ex

One thing people often miss about life is that preparation is key. It’s all about planning. Getting each detail right. It makes all the difference. If you plan carefully, you succeed. It’s that simple. Whether it’s a big project or just a daily routine, being ready sets you apart.

"One venti brown sugar oat milk iced latte," she mutters, her eyes shackled to her phone. Bad-mannered, I think. It's a glimpse into the core of someone's soul- how they treat those serving them. It separates her kind from mine. She flicks her phone over the card reader, oblivious to anyone but herself. I lean closer and watch as she briskly taps her payment through, then slips into her emails.

"Name for the order?" the barista asks, lifting a hand to her visor to adjust it as it slowly shifts down her forehead.  

“Amanda,” she says, eyes still glued to her phone.  

I wonder why she lied. Every visit here this month, a new alias. Sometimes, she’s Ramona. Sometimes Samantha. Never Sarah. Is it a game? A brief escape from herself?

I order next. "Tall black coffee." No frills. It needs to be quick.

I stand behind her again in the pick-up line. She doesn’t notice when they shout Amanda. But why would she? It isn’t her name. Absorbed in her screen, her brow furrowed. She snaps back to reality only at the call of the oat milk latte.

"Becky," they call just as she sips her drink.  Our shoulders brush as I reach for my coffee. I’m not sure if it was on purpose or not. Maybe it was. Her touch sends a jolt of electricity through my body.

“Sorry,” I say to her, but she doesn’t notice the touch. Or me. She never does. She never has.

She pivots toward the door, her form melting into the bustling street. I'm right behind her, just a shadow among many. With its teeming sidewalks and endless distractions—phones glued to hands—this city's a stalker’s paradise. You could be followed for blocks, and you’d never know it.

It’s a wonder more people aren’t struck by cars. I've watched countless times as distracted pedestrians dance with traffic. Phones in faces. Oblivious. Reckless.

She’s on her way to work, ten blocks down, a luxury for a New Yorker. Her new proximity to the office is a rare privilege here. Some days she works from their home—though never on Mondays. Mondays are sacred, reserved for the chaos of new beginnings and piled-up tasks.

Later, she'll drift into Whole Foods, her routine unchanging. There, she’ll walk out with just a single bag of groceries—its cost likely surpassing what I spend on six bags at my local grocer. Her choices are always impeccably upscale: organic steaks, fresh corn on the cob, plump tomatoes. She enjoys cooking for him on Monday nights. I've noted his favorite items progressing along the conveyor belt at the checkout line, week after week. I wonder if she actually enjoys these foods or if she simply prepares what he prefers.

She raises her phone to her ear and begins to talk. I can only make out snippets of her conversation. A tangle of taxi horns and distant shouts muffle her words. Meet you tomorrow at seven. Dos Caminos on Broadway. I miss you too.

She's talking to him. Her pitch skyrockets, a telltale octave above her usual. Reserved for him. Perhaps he prefers the chirpier tones. Maybe my voice, a deeper alto, never quite matched his taste. He disliked my practicality, too—said I made everything a calculation, devoid of spontaneity. And then there was my cooking; he joked that I could burn water.

Or maybe it’s her laugh. Carefree. Infectious. A sharp contrast to my cautious smiles. She dances through life, light and unburdened. Everything I wasn't. Maybe that’s the sparkle he needed. The lightness. Maybe that’s why.

He’s been out of town since last week. He travels a lot. At least once a month. She must miss him terribly. A whole week, all by her lonesome. She's been dining with friends for dinner instead of with him. Substituting midday treadmill runs instead of their usual lunch dates. I think it’s probably good for them both—the distance. My mother always said that distance makes the heart grow fonder. My mother claimed it fueled desire. Maybe it does. Or maybe it just makes you forget.

She stops in front of a store, her gaze locked on the display through the window. I decelerate, maintaining a discreet distance—three storefronts behind. I mimic her, pretending to scrutinize a neighboring shopfront with equal intensity. It's a pet store, previously unnoticed by me. Chic leashes dangle next to whimsically shaped dog toys behind the glass, exuding an air of exclusivity. The prices, no doubt, are beyond my reach.

Her laughter pierces the air, drawing my attention back. I watch from the corner of my eye as she pushes open the glass door and disappears inside. I edge forward, anticipating the usual high-end fashion boutiques she frequents—Chanel or Prada. But as I near, my assumptions shatter against the unexpected sight.

Instead of luxurious accessories with exorbitant price tags, the window reveals an array of baby items. Booties. Bibs. A sleek, modern pram. Each item catches me completely off guard. The pieces of a new puzzle slowly click into place.

I peer through the window, my eyes fixated on Sarah as she sifts through a rack of baby clothes. The phone is abandoned now, a serene smile playing across her face. Jealousy gnaws at me, tightening its grip as she shares a laugh with the saleswoman. My hand instinctively brushes my belly, finding only the echo of emptiness.

I wonder if he knows yet. Or maybe she’s planning on surprising him at Dos Caminos tomorrow night. Perhaps she’s crafted a creative surprise—tucking the pregnancy test into a quaint gift box for him to discover. Or maybe it’s a tiny onesie she’ll hand over, her eyes sparkling with the news. She must be brimming with excitement, each giggle and glance weaving her deeper into the new life she's crafting with him—a life I'm not a part of.

I clutch my purse, pressing firmly against its contents. The familiar weight of the gun inside sends a rush of relief coursing through me.

It's a shame, really. She'll never experience motherhood. I almost feel bad for her.

My gaze finally breaks from her, and I turn away, blending into the crowd towards the subway. It's time to pack, to prepare. I'll make myself at home in her place, just for the day. I've been there before, under a different pretext. When I was with him. This time, my visit will be far less benign. Waiting in the shadows, ready for her return. Preparation is key, after all. Always.