Darling chats in French with another man every night.
She thinks I can't understand, indulging freely.
They discuss the kitchen, coffee table, balcony...
Even planning their next outdoor rendezvous.
Each time she chats, I send her a number.
She once asked what it meant. Drunk, I joked: "Every time you chat with another man, I keep count. When it hits 100, I'm done with you."
At 99, she didn't take it seriously.
At 100, coincidentally our fifth anniversary.
I tricked her into signing divorce papers hidden in house purchase documents.
She doesn't know I've accepted a job offer in France. I'll be gone in a week.
From now on, I'm done with her for good...