The lights around the giant Ferris wheel glow bluish-purple and the night becomes unreal. Like a scene from a fairy tale.
I decide it’s time to lose my husband, Guy.
I slip into the shelter of an alleyway, between Cibo’s Margarita Bar and Sin City Souvenirs. Watch him amble by the market stalls, still chatting as if I’m strolling beside him. He doesn’t notice I’m gone until he stops at a leather stall to rummage through a case of tooled leather belts. Then he turns as if to show me one, his eyes wide with excitement, his head likely fogged with fantasies – my hair veiling my face as I kneel on the marble tiles of a hotel bathroom to undo that buckle. His hands grazing my shoulders, breath warm and tickly on my back. He loves me. Can’t get enough of me. That I know. Have always known. I press my shoulder against the sunbaked wall, heart aching as he turns full circle, forehead furrowed, scanning the crowds with panicked eyes. The belt dangles from his hand. He throws it back onto the counter. Knocks down a rack of earrings. The pony-tailed vendor shrugs. Shakes his head when Guy staggers into the milling crowds and stands, arms outstretched, turning slowly like a creaking windmill. He reaches for his phone and fumbles with the thumbprint ID. My ringer is off so there’s only an insistent vibration. Again and again he calls. Three, four, five times. Then the texts arrive.
Back and forth he paces past the same three stalls. Past the busker with her plaid shirt, torn blue jeans and ruby lips. Past the rhinestone-clad showgirls posing with the drunken frat boys. He shoves his phone into people’s faces as they amble by, jabs at the display, begging for information. I imagine his words. Have you seen this woman? My wife? She’s wandered off. Lost herself. Crazy, huh? He holds his hand palm downwards and measures my height in the air. She’s five-six. Thirtyish. Shoulder-length black hair, slim, pretty, wearing a sleeveless white shift dress.
His mouth droops at the corners and his hands move in freakish semaphore. Some people stop, shake their heads and move on. Others just walk straight by, brushing him aside as if he’s a crazy, buzzing gnat.
When he slumps down on a garbage can and wipes his sleeve over his eyes, love and remorse swell in waves, clutching at my throat until I think I’ll choke. I want to end this thing I’m doing, but then I remember Birdie.
How I have to fix everything for her. Make it all right again.
I made this promise and I can’t go back on it now.
I won’t betray you, Birdie. Ever, ever again.
Then I feel the pressure of a firm hand on my shoulder and it’s too late to turn back.