"Who are you?" Gene didn't want to know the answer, but hurled at the woman sitting across the cafe table regardless. It was because of her that he was alone, it was her fault his wife no longer slept at his side.
She sucked at her cigarette, delivering her answer on a ribbon of viscous blue smoke. "Heather. Who're you?"
Gene, ever the copywriter, bit his tongue as his mind snatched the apostrophe from her words. 'Whore' he wanted to scream at the girl who shared the bed of the only woman he'd ever fucked.
'Liar,' the little voice in the back of his head snarled and he shook it, greasy, unkept hair swaying before his eyes.
"You're Gene, aren't you?" she asked, a thread of pity squirreling into her cockiness. His lip curled and she raised a brow. "I wondered when I would see you. Wondered if you'd come looking for me."
His cup rattled against the saucer and he set it back down. "I hate you," he whispered, little left in his voice of the ire that had set him on his hunt.
"It's not my fault, Gene. She found me. You know that, don't you?"
He looked down at the long, feminine fingers touching the back of his hand and a tear streamed down his cheek, splashing into the coffee.
He nodded and the tapped the back of his hand.
"Good. Now, go home. Shower. Move on."
"He