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My husband’s girlfriend threw wine on me in front of fifty journalists.
Then she announced, loudly enough for every reporter in the room to hear, that he belonged to her.
It happened at the Harrington Media Awards in Manhattan, inside a ballroom crowded with cameras and donors and editors and the kind of people who smile warmly while quietly ending careers. I was wearing an ivory silk dress I had saved six months to afford, standing near the press wall with sparkling water in my hand, waiting for Julian to come down from wherever he said he was.
He said he was upstairs preparing for his keynote speech.
A young woman in a red satin gown walked toward me carrying a glass of merlot and a smile too deliberate to be anything but intentional.
“Oh,” she said as the wine hit my dress. “I’m so sorry.”
The stain spread across the silk like something alive.
Conversations stopped in a radius around us.