She Planted Cabbages to Signal Her Lover,So I Signed the Divorce Papers

Same as always.

"Be safe out there."

She stood in the doorframe wearing that silk camisole nightgown, smiling at me.

I nodded, turned, and stepped into the elevator.

The moment the doors closed, her smile vanished into the narrowing gap.

I took a cab to the train station and found a corner seat in the waiting hall.

I opened my phone and logged into Messenger.

My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds.

Then I tapped into her social media feed.

Rufus's name wasn't in the recent visitors list. Or rather, he was probably using a burner account I'd never recognize.

But in the activity feed, the latest entry was crystal clear.

Fifteen minutes ago.

Marjorie had planted two cabbages in FarmVille.

Something seized my chest and squeezed, inch by inch, tighter and tighter.

Cold spread from my sternum out to my limbs. Even my fingertips went numb.

I stared at those two virtual cabbages sitting quietly on the screen, bright green and plump, their pixelated leaves almost garish against the plain little plot of farmland. Next to them were the carrots and corn she'd planted, neat rows, clearly tended every day.

She really was obsessed with that game. Never missed a day.

I used to tease her about it. Told her nobody still played browser games from the Stone Age, that it was ancient history.

She'd laugh and swat my arm. You don't get it. It's nostalgic.

Now I understood.

The nostalgia was real.

It just had nothing to do with the game.

I sat there for a while, then left the train station.

I hailed another cab and went back to the apartment complex.

I didn't go upstairs. I found a quiet spot with a clear line of sight to the building entrance and stood there.

About ten minutes later, a black SUV turned the corner at the end of the street.

A license plate I knew by heart.

Rufus's car.

It pulled up beside the entrance. The engine stayed running.

Two or three minutes passed. Then Marjorie came out.

She'd changed into a dress. A white floral sundress I'd never seen before. Her hair was down, draped over her shoulders, and she'd put on light makeup.

She walked with a bounce in her step, pulled open the passenger door, and slid in.

Before the door even closed all the way, they were kissing.

Rufus had one hand on the steering wheel. The other cradled the back of her head.

She leaned into him, half her body pressed against his.

The kiss went on and on.

I watched from roughly a hundred feet away. Every detail, perfectly clear.

A sharp sting flared in my chest, like the jab of a needle.

Then it was gone.

Everything was gone.

No pain. No anger. No grief.

Just emptiness.

And numbness.

After Rufus drove off, I flagged down a cab. Told the driver to follow the black SUV ahead of us, not too close.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Said nothing. Just nodded.

About twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled into the underground parking garage at Galleria Mall.

I got out two spaces behind them and followed at a distance.

Marjorie had her arm looped through Rufus's. They walked side by side, shoulders touching, tilting their heads toward each other now and then to talk.

Something he said made her laugh, her eyes crinkling into little crescents.

I knew that laugh too well.

She used to laugh like that in college.

After we got married, it almost disappeared.

She smiled when she held my arm too, but it was different. That smile was gentle, composed. A wife's smile.

Now, on Rufus's arm, she laughed like a girl.

They went into a clothing store first. Marjorie tried on two outfits, spinning in front of the mirror after each one, turning back to ask Rufus if it looked good.