The Pottery Class Trap
3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
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I first suspected something was off when Jack started coming home with his shirt collar damp on dry evenings. He said he'd been jogging, but he never smelled of sweat—only of a perfume I didn't recognize, floral and faint, like crushed violets. I told myself I was being paranoid. Eight years of marriage, two kids, a mortgage: we were solid. But the damp collars became a pattern, then the late meetings, then the way he’d silence his phone when I walked into the room.
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