Inked In Scars: My Ex-Husband's Regret

This was the twenty-seventh time my husband had brought his mistress into my studio.

His buddies were placing bets in the outer room, wagering on whether I would throw a jar of turpentine in their faces this time.

I didn't. My brush came down steady and sure.

Until that woman simpered and asked for the signature on a painting.

"On what grounds?" I challenged her out loud for the first time.

He flicked his cigarette ash and answered, offhand:

"It's just a signature, isn't it?"

It wasn't just a painting. It was ten years of relentless practice.