The café had become their temple. That stupid corner booth, the one by the window where plants hung like a screen. I knew because of Arjun's slip in the voice note. Curiosity ate me alive, so one afternoon I walked in.
I wasn't there to explode. No, not yet. Just to see. Just to smell the air of betrayal.
I sat three tables away, hidden behind a newspaper like some cliché detective. And there she was. My wife. Hair tied loose, laughter spilling too easily. He sat across, cocky posture, fingers tapping the table like it was his drum.
I didn't watch them like a husband. I watched them like a hunter studying prey. Every tilt of her head, every look she gave him—it was muscle memory of what she used to give me. That burned.
They didn't touch, not there. Smart. But the glances said enough. You can't police eyes. Eyes are traitors.
When they left, I followed. Not close. Just enough to mark the rhythm. The café became part of my map, the trap I could set later. If I ever wanted to pull the rug, I knew the ground.
Leaving that place, I whispered under my breath, "Enjoy your coffee, fuckers. I'll make sure it chokes you one day."