The dress is more expensive than I thought but you still bought it. You pleaded me to wear the dress in every chance I get. Are dresses really cheaper inside the department store? Maybe I should change my views.

        “Do you want something to eat?” you asked me. Before I can answer, you held my hand and intertwined your fingers with mine. “Ice cream?” you suggested and I nodded. How did you know I am craving for sweets?

        We entered, you went to the counter and I searched for a spot for us to sit in. I waited there patiently as you keep looking at me. I didn’t pick for a flavor, you know what I like. You know me very well.

        “Strawberries and cream,” you handed out my cone with the perfect scoop of my favorite flavor. I smiled and at my ice cream. One , two , three , and then I looked at you. Why are you gazing at me intently? Is there something unwanted in my face?

        “What?” I mouthed softly, waiting for your answer before I proceed to pay attention to my soft serve. “You’re too cute,” you sweetly replied. I showed a sarcastic smile. One , two , three —I am secretly melting inside.

        Why aren’t you eating your ice cream yet? If you don’t want it, you can give it to me. You know my appetite on sweets. Then I noticed your ice cream slowly melting from your hand, dripping down on your skin. Still you are there looking at me as I devour on my sweet. I quickly got the tissue from the table on wiped your hands. Don’t you know how sticky the ice cream makes you feel?

        “This is how I melt for you,” you released a cheesy line as I clean your hand. You are not helping me. How about you wipe your hand with your free hand? I am preventing myself not to swoon because of that cheesy statement. I hate myself for falling over those cheesy statements.

        “She has the same brown coat,” you said, pointing at the girl walking like a model on the runway, outside. I managed to let out a fake, little smile and stopped wiping your hand. I put down the used tissue and continued to my ice cream, this time with sad eyes. One , two , three — my sweet bud isn’t working anymore; my salty, bitter bud on my tongue is ignited.

        Why do you have to mention her?

        I get it. I am a mistress. A damn freaking mistress. We couldn’t live under the same roof together, you can’t proudly show me to your friends and family with that dress you bought me. Why would you melt for me? Are you even melting for me? I am a mistress.

        I am a mistress, a second choice, the other woman, the succubus, a concubine, a doxy, a minx, a hoochie, the Jezebel, the quean—every wife’s living nightmare. We can’t do things together or as one. You shared your vows with your wife; you and your wife are one.

        From the start, I know you’re married but you don’t wear your wedding ring. You once told me, you only wear it when you’re at home together with your wife. You said, the time will come that you will divorce her and marry me and maybe live happily ever after just like in the fairytale. Should I still hold on to it? Did I ever hold on to it? Yes, maybe for five minutes. We are impossible, we have no chance.

        “Let’s go,” you announced and held my free hand tightly, like we are a real, legal couple. I faked a smile. They say when you fake a smile, the brain releases a chemical that makes you happy for real, and I am testing if it’s true.

        Maybe it is, maybe it’s not.