I know why they call it a stab of jealousy.

Imagine an instantaneous strike of emotion centered in your chest, the impact enough to make you gasp. Then it diffuses and bleeds outward into the rest of your body. Clenched fists, vision tinted, a dark red environment of anger.

That is what I feel when I look at Cynthia. Yes, it is her. I had not been mistaken. Unwanted memories of our last encounter two years ago flood into my head, and I begin shaking, irresolute in what action I should take next.

Told that it was over between us. She didn’t know how I truly felt because I lost contact with her. She disappeared for over a year, until one evening she just happened to pick up the phone. We had fought terribly, she accused me of harassment. No explanation could reach her. I was abandoned for someone else.

Now here she is, with a makeover so thorough that I nearly do not recognize her, even face to face. Nearly. Now I watch her, laughing, as she wraps her arms around another guy in an intimate embrace.

Stab.