The Aftertaste is Not Gone

I hurried to the hotel on my beat-up electric scooter, eager to tell my wife that our coffee shop was finally about to land its first big order.

As I pushed open the door to the banquet hall, I froze in shock.

A ragdoll cat was rolling around on the cake I had stayed up all night to make.

My wife walked over, stepping on cake crumbs strewn across the floor. Without even glancing at me, she fastened a platinum collar around the cat's neck, then moved close to adjust that man's tie.

I looked down at my flour-covered work uniform, then at the cheap plastic pendant hanging from my daughter's neck.

So this was the "high-end market" she had been talking about. It was never about our coffee shop.

Ten years of marriage, shattered at a pet party.