Suddenly she realized it was him crossing in front of her car at the Home Depot, Sunday afternoon when at least half of the community would be out buying mulch.

He was gaunt and gray. He didn’t look up or acknowledge any recognition. Neither did she. Just sat there, stunned to see this stranger she once was married to, carrying brand new deck coverings out of the store. 

She wondered who, now that she no longer lived there, stocked the fridge, prepped the salads, prepared the meat for the fire–as she’d done, back before she was the talk of the town?

She forced herself to remember, not the little details of life that they’d shared, but rather, that her infamy exists in her head alone. The others, all-too-consumed with their perfect suburban flower beds.