Revenge

“Five o’ clock? I’ll be there.”

My lips curve into a smile as I finger the edges of a small black and white square of paper. It’s a photograph – a lithe figure, a white sheet carelessly thrown over half of her naked body, her unruly waves splayed all around her face, like a starburst. Me, one year ago.

The inscription on the back is branded onto my brain: “You little temptress. Love you forever- Zafar.”

An hour later, we face each other over tea. Everything seems slow, as if we’re underwater. He’s speaking. I look up.

“I regret marrying her, yes. But I wouldn’t leave her. No. We have a son.”

His calm makes me want to scream. I get up.

“I’d better get going. Oh, and this is for your wife.”

I reach into my bag. Part of me, a large part, had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

I hand him a parcel- flowery blue paper, wrapped around a red shawl, a small black and white square of paper buried in the folds.

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