He must think I’m dumb. I take another sip of wine. He drops to his knees professing his innocence. He doesn’t know she secretly recorded him, sent the video soon after he finished, all two minutes and thirty-two seconds, the weighed-down condom dangling from the tip of his penis as he walked by the hidden camera.
“Get out,” I say, “before I do something I regret.”
He doesn’t listen, tries to take the glass from me. I ball my fist and snap off the stem then thrust it into his throat, splattering my face with blood.
Funny—I regret nothing.