saw him just the other day. he was with somebody else (insert/her/name/here)...

homemaker, homewrecker.

to hear her tell it, she

fit the description of neither.

still, there was no

pretending.

women, including those

which enjoy having their

breasts cupped by

men without faces,

were simply too dangerous

to be left to their

own devices.

sawdust, in the
front pocket of his
shirt told the story,
plainer than his mouth
ever could have, even if
he'd tried to explain,
which was a longshot.
he was working again.
which was all that
really mattered,
in the end.

over tea and moldy paperback books, the women discussed how they had come to know, relishing in the instances of things to which they had turned a blind eye: long, dark hairs in the laundry, unfamiliar perfume, statements from so-and-so at the supermarket, the library, along with

(other dreary cliches)

there were whispers, of course. piled in the backseat of their cars and sneaked into their purses, cradled between fresh tubes of lipstick. whispers were considered standard, part of the territory.

after all, what good is an affair without the whispers?