Fighting tears, I knew I had to drag myself out of bed and go through the motions of being a real living, breathing person. I’d have to pretend to be human when I really felt like a pod person dropped out of a flying spacecraft.

Making my way into the bathroom, I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection closely. Not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough or thin enough. Sure, I was a good person on the inside, but all that had gotten me was cheated on.

I tugged on some jeans, thinking about my Weight Watchers points. I had to start doing lunges every morning to tighten my rear view. I knew that if I’d had a candy apple ass, Dave wouldn’t have cheated with Chloe. No one would leave a rock-hard ass; it was something to keep a guy warm at night. My jeans were snug, but not in the good, JLo kind of way. They were snug more in the I-will-always-have-my-mother’s-ass kind of way.

If I’d been obsessive about Dave before, this morning my obsession was totally consuming me. As I made my coffee and toasted my English muffin, I wondered where he was. Was he waking up alone? Was he with Chloe? Were they making fun of me right now? He often didn’t like to stay over with me on what he called “school nights.” Would his passion for Chloe push all the work priorities aside?

Leaving the house, I had to summon all my strength and willpower not to drive by Dave’s house to see if Chloe’s red Mercedes was there this early in the morning. I took a left on Highland, the road to work, instead of the right turn that would have led me on the quick drive to Dave’s. I could do this, I told myself. Gripping the wheel and trying to hold back a sob, I repeated, “I can get through a Monday at work.”

The next few days at the office, I tried not to think about Dave or Chloe. When Steve Jacobs told me the Marilyn show had scored the highest ratings ever for the series, I just smiled numbly and gave him a big “thumbs up” sign from my desk. I even endured an awkward embrace of congratulations from Haley. Awkward in that the hug was a first between us, and also that her breast implants felt like concrete bricks through her thin T-shirt.

“You just get me like no one else on the writing staff,” she told me intently.

“Are you kidding me? You’re a breeze to write for,” I bullshitted back.

“I love the final shot, where they push in tight to the photo of Marilyn on the desk.”

“Me too,” I replied, covering. After everything with Dave, I had never ended up watching the show.