'D'

The problem with Spokane is when you go to Verizon to take your number off your husband’s plan, the woman he’s fucking walks in. This has nothing to do with the city’s size, but rather, its Spokaneity. Steal someone’s parking spot? That’s your new boss. A fluff of blond hair, ‘M’, is balanced on her hip. Your ex-husband was supposed to be getting you pregnant. Instead, he blew everything on a woman from high school who wears bedazzled, low-rise jeans. Temu Britney Spears. You’re in purgatory. Your phone isn’t connected to service, so you can’t doom-scroll Instagram, study your high school friends carting their babies around Bellevue Botanical Gardens with their cheese foam boba teas. The woman’s brown-haired child, ‘H’, is picking fuzz out of the carpet. The third, ‘D’, is spinning in circles, a blur of red hair. He’s the oldest, just turned nine. None of this appears to faze her, nor does your presence. You feel like the interloper. You know these children’s first initials because you have analyzed the woman’s Instagram history—you almost accidentally liked a comment on a 2013 photo and had a minor heart attack. Your ex-husband was in her comment section all along. Liking pictures on your honeymoon. You’re being assisted by Raina. She’s located your account based on your number, but migrating to a new plan is proving difficult. For a moment, you visualize your divorce as a V of birds—you’re migrating. Flying South for infidelity. Raina’s plastic nails are clacking speedily across the keyboard. She’s trying to find a way around providing the account passcode. D takes a seat next to you, searching for solid land in his vertigo. Planting his bottom, he says “Whoa,” like a tiny, drunk soldier. You look over your shoulder to see an old couple enter, taking the bench by the windows. The woman is holding something in tin foil in her lap. The man, his phone. “Can you hang for a sec?” Raina says, signaling to the couple. You are determined to demonstrate patience so the other woman will know you are a good person. God knows what he’s said about you. The old lady squeezes past you to put a pie on the counter. She lifts the foil. “Strawberry rhubarb,” she says with mischief. “You shouldn’t have!” Raina says, taking the phone from the old man. Her nails click across the surface, and she returns the phone. “Should be all good,” she says. “You’re a miracle,” the old woman says. “I’ll let you get back to it.” The pair turn to exit as quickly as they came. “What was that about?” “They always forget their Apple password,” Raina says, shrugging. “What does that have to do with Verizon?” “Nothing. They came here asking about it and I had enough time to help. Now, they just come here. At this point, I know their password. Can you just use my phone, call him, get the passcode?” Fear builds at the base of your neck. D is folding a Verizon Internet brochure into an accordion fan. You open the Notes app on your phone, type, “My husband’s mistress is the woman with all these kids”, and hand your phone to Raina. “Shit,” Raina says. “Shit,” D says. “Shit!” Raina says, clapping her hand over her mouth. D is giggling. He seems to understand that though he isn’t allowed to swear, a loophole appears when an unfamiliar adult swears in front of him, especially if his mother is distracted talking to another adult. He’s using the fan he’s created to blow air on the pie left by the old couple. “I’m going to go to the back to ask my manager about this,” Raina says. You want to say Please do not leave me alone with my ex-husband’s mistress’s child, but you can’t. “You shouldn’t swear,” you tell D, louder than usual, hoping the woman might overhear. She looks over at you and shrugs, like Kids, what are you going to do? Blank face, lash extensions blowing in the AC. There is no recognition on her face, and you know her ex-mother-in-law’s Instagram handle. Your husband has left you for a woman who doesn’t care enough about him to investigate you. D continues to fan the pie. “Pies need to cool before you eat,” he says. You understand that D intends to eat the pie. “That’s not your pie,” you warn. D seems to notice you for the first time. He looks at his hands, at you, at the pie. “What if I… touched it?” D whispers, running his hands along the lattice crust. “Then, it would be mine.” “You should not do that,” you say, anger rising in your voice. His eyes lock with yours. “What if I licked it?” He tilts his head downward and puts the tip of his tongue on the pie crust. You look over at the woman, but she’s absorbed in conversation with the Verizon rep. “You’re not going to want this pie,” you say. “Why?” “Because, D,” you say. His eyes widen when he hears the letter that starts his name. You thread your fingers through the gaps in the lattice, twisting your hand to break the fragile net. You pull your hands out to reveal sticky, red goo. “This is my pie now.”