Rachel

You had been dating Rachel for seven months when she finally asked you to stay the night. It felt significant in the quiet way certain moments do, as though you had finally been invited past some invisible boundary. In the morning, she was still asleep when you went looking for your shirt. That was when you noticed the hamper. Men’s clothes. Several shirts. Work pants. Socks. Not something a guest had left behind. They looked worn, ordinary, regularly used. You stared at them until the apartment seemed unfamiliar. Rachel appeared in the doorway. Her expression changed. “Please don’t.” “Rachel, who lives here?” Before she could answer, the lock turned. A man walked in carrying a paper bag. He stopped when he saw you. Then he looked at Rachel. “So,” he said quietly. “This is him.” Your stomach dropped. Rachel whispered, “Jimmy.” He set the bag on the counter but didn't take his eyes off her. “You said he didn't know.” Rachel went pale. “I was going to tell him.” Jimmy gave a small, humorless nod. “About us?” Rachel looked at you. “There isn't an ‘us.’ Not anymore.” Jimmy's eyes stayed on hers. “You keep saying that.” Silence settled between the three of you, thick enough that you could hear the refrigerator cycling somewhere behind you. You looked at Rachel. “You're married.” “Yes.” “To Jimmy.” “Yes.” “Then why am I here?” She stepped toward you. “Because it's over.” Jimmy finally looked at you. “You should ask her what she means by over.” Rachel turned sharply. “Jimmy.” He picked up the bag again. “I'll be in the other bedroom.” He walked away, leaving you standing there with Rachel, suddenly aware of the closed door at the end of the hallway. Seven months. And apparently, there had always been another bedroom.