Always keep your eye on him. Begin with him in mind. Always keep your focus on him. And should his eye start to wander, do something to spice it up. And for God's sake, don't gain weight. My grandmother’s advice swam around in my head.  The same way the blood-red liquid sloshed as I spun it around and around in my thin-stemmed glass.   It sloshes, but in a circular motion.    The wine looks orderly almost, as it moves in tandem with the circular motion of the glass.  But only I knew the truth– the wine wasn’t really moving in rhythmic, predictable agitation.       No. It was chaos.  Much like my life had had been since I talked to her.   Her voice was so poised, steady, and even.   She was so composed  When I asked her:  Do you know who I am?  And When is the last time you slept with my husband?  I didn’t really know what to expect.  When I asked her that question. But, it was really the first question that I wanted an answer to.  The first of many questions: How long had you been sleeping with my husband?  Do you love him?  Do you think that he loves you? Did you make wild, passionate love, or was it in a muted, bored sort of fashion?  Like he did with me. Did he fill your soul?  Did you smile incessantly while you were with him?  Did he ever talk about me?  Did he ever talk about leaving me?  And our two kids?  One of whom I was still breastfeeding?  Did he tell you how he promised to never hurt me?  Did he tell you how he shut down and stopped talking to me?  What did his smile look like?  (Because I couldn’t remember)  Did you know that every time you stroked the back of his neck You were tearing our life apart?  The life that he and I had made?  Together?  Did he tell you how I whispered “I love you” in his ear during our wedding vows?  (That wasn’t part of the vows, you know).  That was improvised.  Straight from the heart.  I had lots of questions for her.  But I also had questions for him:  Why?  You couldn’t talk to me?  You couldn’t tell me why you weren’t happy? I already knew.   You couldn’t just say it out loud? You couldn’t just agree to see the stupid marriage counselor like I asked?  Did you like hiding things from me?  Did it bring you pleasure?  What were you thinking exactly, that one time when I dropped you off at the airport? And you were going to meet her? But I had no idea?  Did you know that you were driving a dagger through my heart?  Or perhaps you thought it was only a butter knife.  Were you aware that I had waited my whole life for you? For a love like yours?  Or what I thought was a love like yours?  Did you know that I was sorry for all the times I yelled?  For all the times I made you feel small?  That I really didn’t know how to be in an adult relationship?  That you were my first?  Relationship And everything else?  But did you also know that none of that excuses what you did?  The way you took my mind, my soul and my voice, all without my consent?  And how could you?  How could you do this to me?  The one who loved you most of all?  There were so many questions I wanted to ask.  And yet I couldn’t find the words.  I couldn’t hear my own thoughts  Over the deafening silence from him.  Him who now stood before me with no words.  Unable to admit his wrongdoing, or even look at it straight on.  Of him, who (apparently) couldn’t leave me for good,  But could leave me crying and screaming on the cold tile floor after finding out Gasping desperately for the reality that I thought I knew.  Of him who swore it was over before I talked to her.  And that I hadn’t been the one to end it.  How much I really wanted to believe that.  I so desperately wanted to believe it. And now, here I was.  At a wine bar.  Alone.  The children with my parents for the weekend. Thank God they are young.  Else, how would I explain?  Him at home, alone.  Staring at the television.  And me.  Alone.  I had just left him.  I was screaming at him.  Despite my best efforts to remain calm.  Something about how the heart sears as it burns Keeps me from being able to keep my voice down.  “How could you?” I had asked.  What were you thinking?  When did you ever have the time to?  And you could come home and look me in my eyes? You celebrated birthdays?  Watched the people you love blow out candles while  The flames of so many lies danced in your own eyes?  Were you sorry?  Because you certainly didn’t act like it. Did she mean anything to you?  Of course she did—how can you be with someone for two years And it not mean anything?  Was it worth it?  Was she better than I was?  In all the ways she could be better?  Probably, right?  And I can ask whatever questions I want, how dare you try to censor me?  What do I do now?  You don’t love me How could you do this to me and still love me?  What do I do now? Because despite my rage, I still love you And I hate myself for it What do I do with this mess of a life you’ve made?  How do I glue pieces of a crystalline, broken life back together? I had no answers.  And neither did he.  So I left the house.  And now here I sat. Staring into the wine. Red.  Opaque. Pooled at the bottom of my glass. A cold gust of air blows in  As a couple bounds in from outside. It is winter, after all.  They shiver and snuggle together. They pass behind me as they make their way to a cozy table for two in the corner.  As I glance at them in the mirror wall behind the bar, I catch a glimpse of myself.  I observe my eyes.  The lift of my cheekbones.  The curve of my neck.  I am still beautiful.  My spirit momentarily lifts at this realization.  Yes, yes.  I can go out and try again.  Fall in love   With someone new.  And then I remember that even my beauty was not enough to  compel fidelity.  It never would be.  I look away Embarrassed  That I have never experienced love without duplicity.  Unsure of what to do Or where to go I order another glass of wine Hoping the answers will come to me as I sip. I am at once the  Wretched And redeemed I think to myself, with my first sip.  Bowed but not broken?  I sip.  Ugh.  Another sip.  Despite my wishing, the subsequent sips fail to usher in wisdom or profound insights.  I am a woman with a broken heart Sitting at a bar  Drinking wine.  It’s that simple.  So what the hell do I do?  My grandmother would tell me  To stay. May she rest in peace.  But I followed her advice already and  Look where it landed me.  No.  This choice,  Whatever it was going to be,  would have to be my own.  The choice of a beautiful, broken woman.  I paid for my wine and silently slid off of my barstool.  I walked gingerly to the door.  As I waited by the front door I peered out of the glass window,  . Searching for the bright headlights of my Uber in the darkness of  The night.  As the car slowed to a stop in front of the bar,  I wrapped my crimson scarf around my face and neck,  And I stepped out into the cold.