As planned, she’d walked to downtown Franklin, caught an Uber car she paid for with a Visa gift card, had him take her to the airport in Atlanta, tipped him $300 so he wouldn’t say anything, dropped the disposable burner phone in the toilet and flushed it clean away, then hopped a plane and flew off to Paris, with her shiny new hair and her shiny new name and her shiny new passport.

Standing in her new living room, in her new city, her new country, her new life, the windows flung open to the cool spring afternoon, the scrolled wrought iron balconette holding her back from stepping into the sky, the birds chirping in the trees along the street in front of her, the red roofs leading to the view—the view!—of the Eiffel Tower, she took three quick breaths, pulled her newly dark hair out of its messy ponytail, and shook it down her back.

I’m free. Finally, I’m free.

She fell to her knees and began to cry.

Wife, Interrupted

WIFE, INTERRUPTED

Sutton woke the first morning in her new Paris flat to sunlight. It spilled through the window and edged around her bed, warming her, welcoming and friendly. She rubbed a hand across her face, wiped the grit from her eyes, and stretched. The bed wasn’t overly large like the massive California king they had at home, just a standard European full, and she felt cozy and snug.

And famished, an alien sensation these past few months.

She rose, drank a glass of water, straightened the pencils on top of the desk. Pulled on a pair of tights and a tunic, slid her feet into clogs. Careful to make sure she had the key to the flat, she walked down the four flights to the street below, then up one block to the patisserie, where she bought a long, crusty baguette, then next door to the grocer, where she loaded up on fruit and vegetables, and finally, the cheese shop, where she purchased three varieties without looking at the labels. Ethan had allergies, so many of them, intolerances and sensitivities, so in order to coddle him and his bizarre issues she rarely bought food that she loved. Grabbing whatever struck her at the moment felt wildly indulgent.

She didn’t know exactly when she’d stopped loving him. Wasn’t completely sure she ever had.

They’d met at a book festival. Ethan was a writer, too, from London. A very celebrated novelist who had managed one brilliant book, gotten famous for it, and spent all his time now traveling the circuit, guest lecturing, and teaching the odd workshop, being paid exorbitant amounts of money to look fabulous at New York and London parties and appear frequently on Page Six with gorgeous women draped all over him like a bespoke suit.