The Paradox of Divorce
It’s been three years since I married Ethan, and
he hasn’t touched me. Wearing a lacy
nightgown, I faked a hickey and sent him a
“sleeping selfie,” taken from his supposed POV.
“Dude, she’s amazing. Think you could speed
up that divorce and let me have her?”
I figured Ethan, upon receiving this anonymous message, would be disgusted and furious, ready
to discard me his sister’s stand–in
trash. I thought, finally, this would be my ticket
out.
- 1.
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My sister was on vacation in Hawaii, celebrating their third wedding anniversary. She asked what I wanted as a gift. I asked for a burner phone. Clutching the phone, I stood in the empty hotel room, letting out a weary sigh. Then, I slipped into the flimsy nightgown I’d bought specifically
for this plan. I stared at my reflection, creating the illusion of passionate marks on my neck
and collarbone. Hickeys, scattered like a
constellation, as if left by a demanding lover. I even tore the strap of the nightgown for effect. Finally, I smudged my lipstick, perfecting the
post–coital look.
I arranged the other side of the bed to look
slept in, then lay down, closing my eyes.
Camera set to self–timer, his perspective.
Three, two, one.
The photo captured a woman seemingly lost in post–bliss slumber, utterly unguarded. I stared
at it for a long time. Ethan’s reputation flashed
through my mind. A shark in the boardroom,
ruthless, cold. But the Ethan I knew best was
the man who reserved all his tenderness, all his
affection, for my sister.
I’d braced myself for the worst. Even if he felt
nothing for me, surely a man couldn’t tolerate
such blatant betrayal. He might retaliate. But ultimately, he’d be repulsed, and he’d let me go. Divorce. That’s all I wanted. I closed my eyes
and hit send. The message, casual and
taunting: “Dude, she’s amazing. Think you could speed up that divorce and let me have her?”
along with the picture. Sent.
