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the window. Only half of the room was visible from the street. He was talking to someone I couldn’t see. While they talked, he opened a bottle of wine. They sat down and ate a meal together. Then I caught a glimpse of his companion. It was a woman. Was it his wife? I couldn’t see her clearly. He put his arm around her and kissed her.
So I wasn’t the only one being betrayed. He had returned home, after kissing my wife, and ate the meal this woman had prepared for him, as if nothing had happened. I knew I couldn’t leave it here—I had to do something. But what? Despite my best homicidal fantasies, I wasn’t a murderer. I couldn’t kill him.
I’d have to think of something cleverer than that.