The woman sitting across from Steve is dressed young. She is young. At least fifteen years younger than my husband. Emerald eyes and tousled curls, perfect chicklet white teeth. Maybe if I don’t acknowledge her she really won’t be there. Who is she? He’s wearing the smile. The smile I gave him. My heart is pounding as if attempting to escape from my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
And then I notice it. The newspaper. A series of paragraphs. A tiny photo. It’s me. I died? Shaking, I look back at Steve. That smile. My God, that smile.