Evelyn

Sunday morning. Evelyn (30), your gorgeous wife covered in tattoos, walked into the kitchen as you drank coffee, sadness in her eyes. "Marc Brooks, my ex before we married... died in a car crash." You stared, confused. "That's a shame. You said he lived in France." "He did. An accident outside Paris," she whispered, grief plain. Marc was 30, her first true love. She met him at 20 in his tattoo shop—he was the artist who inked her body. Their intense romance ended bitterly because he constantly cheated, putting her through hell. "Are you heartbroken?" you asked. "No... not at all," she lied, walking away. You’ve been married 3 years, together 5, but you knew her bond with him was sick and twisted—she once admitted he drove her insane. On Monday, you left for a work trip to Washington, returning Friday to find a fresh tattoo on her right arm next to an old one: 04-09-2016. "What is this? You said no more tattoos." She looked annoyed. "Nothing. Just a date.. forget it." But you knew she lied. Then it hit you. "You said you got together with Marc on April 9, 2016. What happened on April 11, Evelyn?" She snapped. "Forget it, love." Knowing she lied, a dark thought struck. "Is that the day you first slept with him?" Her face turned pale as ice. "Yes... I can never forget April 11, the most beautiful day of my life," she shocked you by admitting. "The most beautiful day? He treated you like a nothing and you still worship a dead ghost? And you carved his date on your skin for me to see? Why did you even marry me?!" you roared. She looked away, silent. "Do you even remember when we first slept together? Probably not." Devastated and humiliated, you slept in the guest room. Saturday morning before leaving, you dropped the bomb: "I want a divorce. Live with his ghost." Hearing this, her eyes flashed with furious anger. She slammed her hand on the counter, blocking your path with a harsh, defensive glare.