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At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap
The pounding came again.
Performance.
The kind of loud, open-palmed banging designed for neighbors behind curtains and gossip before breakfast.
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