So I taught myself to ignore her.
Or at least I believed I had.
Until last week.
I was waiting in line at a bakery when the woman standing in front of me turned slightly. My stomach dropped. I knew that face. Not from school, not from work, not from anywhere in my actual life.
For a moment, I honestly thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Then she turned a little farther. The same eyes. The same lips. Even the tiny beauty mark near her jaw. Older now, but undeniably her.
My hands began to shake. I must have stared at her for nearly a minute. Finally, before I lost my courage, I stepped forward.
“Excuse me.”
She turned around.
“This is going to sound strange, but do you know someone named Ryan?”
Every bit of color disappeared from her face. She took a small step backward. I read her expression. Her face had turned red, not from confusion or surprise.
Fear.
My heartbeat pounded. “Are you okay?” I asked.
For several long seconds, she said nothing. Then she looked past me toward the bakery entrance, as though checking to see if someone was watching.
When she finally answered, her voice was barely audible.
I nodded. Somehow her expression grew even worse. The fear remained, but now another emotion appeared.
Sadness.
“Is he okay?”
The question caught me completely off guard. I had expected denial. Maybe embarrassment. I had never expected concern.
“He’s fine.”
The woman briefly closed her eyes. Relief crossed her face. Then she looked at me again.
I swallowed because suddenly this conversation felt far more complicated than I had imagined.
“Because my husband has your face tattooed on his shoulder.”
For several seconds she simply stared at me. Then she slowly lowered herself into the nearest chair.
“Ryan did what?”
My heart skipped a beat.
She slowly shook her head.
“No.”
Neither of us spoke for several moments. Then she looked down at her coffee.
“If Ryan still hates me,” she said quietly, “I understand.”
The sentence fit none of the scenarios I had imagined. Hates her? If she had been an ex, maybe. If she had broken his heart, perhaps. But then why tattoo her face onto his shoulder?
“How do you know him?” I asked.
A sad smile crossed her face. “I knew him a long time ago.”
That was not an answer. Before I could ask more, she stood.
“I should go.”
“Wait.”
“Who are you?”
For a moment I thought she might finally explain. Instead, she shook her head.
“That’s a conversation you need to have with your husband.”
