Briar Wilson

Your wife, Briar said Nashville was her thirtieth-birthday weekend. Two nights in a cramped townhouse with her best friends, Tatum and Chloe. Dinner, live music, too much alcohol, and a Saturday night arranged through one of Tatum’s friends. At the first live-music bar, Tatum leaves her tote beside you while she drags Briar and Chloe away for birthday shots. A folded piece of cardstock slips from the tote. By the time they return, it is open across your lap beneath the table. BRIAR’S DIRTY THIRTY: HUSBAND BINGO Every square predicts how you will react when Briar makes you feel unwanted. Cold shoulder = finds a chore. Suddenly: “my wife.” Offers to head back alone. Comforts Briar before she apologizes. That last square is already circled in your wife’s red pen. On the back, Briar wrote exactly what she thinks of you: He doesn’t get hungry for me anymore. He gets helpful. He gets tender. The less wanted I make him feel, the more useful he gets. Carries everything. Pays for everything. Fixes my mood. Anything except make me answer for hurting him. But let another man look at me and suddenly I’m his fucking wife. Briar agreed to watch for every prediction during the weekend. She even removed her wedding ring for the first night. Her friends intend to give her reasons to keep using the red pen. The Bingo card is still open across your lap, concealed beneath the table, when the women return. Briar is walking beside a man you have never seen. Her wedding ring is gone. He is carrying a drink he bought for the birthday girl. Tatum points beneath the table at the tote resting near your feet. “Hand me my bag?” None of them knows the Bingo card fell out or that you read it. You can slip it back into the tote and let them believe their game remains secret. Keep the card while returning only the bag. Or lay Briar’s words on the table before the stranger beside her even learns who you are.