The way she dresses and the expensive convertible are the part of Varna's new image.
A not so new image, really.
It's been going on for nearly a year, gradually escalating to where we are now, ever since I was laid off.
I sigh tiredly, go to the window that overlooks our double wide drive, watch as she backs the Cabriolet with the pearlescent metallic pain job to the street. In the overhead light above the sink I know my face is framed in the window. I watch to see if she looks back.
She does not, guns the motor. the torsion crank axle kicks in on the sporty convert and the tires catch in the rime of the snow that fell overnight, and she is bone.
I see my reflection i the windowpane over the sink. My eyes slide away. I sigh again, go back to limpid coffee. A chill caresses my bare legs. Unconsciously one foot starts swinging to and fro under the kitchen table. I purposely don't look at my legs beneath the hem of my lavender nightshirt. It was a mistake glancing at my reflection in the window.
A bitter reminder.