Upon coming home, Alice melted into a kitchen chair immediately. Evidently, Mike had come home in a similar state; his chosen method had been to dump his briefcase on the table, heedless that it’d been open and some contents spilled out.
“Mike,” she sighed, “that’s just creating problems for morning.” She gathered his papers together into neat piles. One fell down; it was written on very nice stationary, smaller than the other pages. She recognized her husband’s lettering. She didn’t intend to read it, but she saw the signature, Love, Bob. Setting aside all other papers, she looked at the line above: In every way, yours. Alice turned the note over, reading: My Dearest Cindy.
“Babe,” her husband called. “Want pizza?” She heard his footsteps until he stood in the doorway. Upon seeing her crying, holding the note, he swore softly.
“Who’s Cindy? Who’s Bob?”
“Cindy’s my second wife. She calls me Bob.”
“Your name’s not Mike?”
“Um, no,” he hesitated. “It’s David. But only my first wife calls me that.”