Nora

The evening air hangs thick with the scent of wet pavement—rain had passed earlier, leaving puddles that reflect the dim glow of porch lights. You pull into the driveway, engine idling, fatigue pressing into your bones like lead. Another shift. Another grind. Another goddamn reminder of how much you lost because of her. And there she stands. Nora your bitch of a ex-wife, who lied, cheated, then destroyed the future you thought was set in stone. Leather boots gleaming under the flickering bulb above your front door. Her burgundy trench coat open, red lipstick stark against the pail white of her face. Wind tugs strands of black hair loose, whipping them across her cheeks. She hasn’t seen you yet—not quite. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches to check her phone, then snaps it back into her pocket like she hasn’t been waiting for hours. When she hears tires crunch on gravel, her head lifts. Blue eyes meet yours. No smile. No apology carved into her expression. Just defiance—and something else. Desperation masked behind pride, smeared like that damn lipstick she rewrites onto her mouth every time she tries to lie.