The little things tipped her: the haircut, designer jeans and especially the jacket. She had been nagging at him for years to dump his corduroy with the patched elbows. So many professors wore them they were a cliché.
When he came into the kitchen in a black leather bomber jacket with his hair spiked, she glanced at him sharply, peering over her half spectacles from the morning paper. This “new” look made her feel frumpy and self conscious.
“No, I’ll grab a bagel. I’ll be home late. I’m meeting a potential faculty hire. You know the routine, dinner and meetings.”
“Oh, ok. I have my book group.”
It was past 1am. Pretending to be asleep, she was barely breathing. Quietly he pulled off his boots, stripped and showered. . She loved when he would wrap his long legs around her, pull her close and nuzzle her neck, but he stayed on his side and fell into a deep sleep.
She got up, smelled his leather jacket and breathed in the unmistakable perfume. Gorge rose in her throat, and she went to the computer. She knew his password, S-P-O-N-C-O-M, for “spontaneous combustion”, the topic of his physics thesis. She had put the bastard through six years of graduate school. There in his email were thirty adoring emails from “J”…signed with a letter, not even her full name. Pure rage bubbled and she grabbed her best shears. He was sleeping peacefully. She cut that beautiful leather jacket in tidy squares.