Chapter 1

For the thirtieth time, I woke up in this bed. The divorce papers on the nightstand still carried the cold scent of ink.

My wife, Winnie Lynn, lay with her back to me, her shoulder blades outlined like a pair of broken butterfly wings.

A month ago, she was in a car accident and lost all her memories, even how much she once loved me. When she woke up, she looked at me as if I were an intruder, then calmly asked for a divorce.

I tried everything. I took her back to the college where we met, to the restaurant where we fell in love, and even pulled out our thick photo albums. But nothing worked.

She said politely, "Sorry, I don't remember. It's like I'm reading someone else's story."

Then, a week ago, on the night I signed the divorce papers in despair, a bizarre car accident threw me back to the first day she asked for a divorce.

*****

When the blinding sunlight stabbed into my eyes, I jerked upright, gasping for air. The tearing pain of the truck slamming into me still lingered in my chest, yet the silence around me was absolute.

The alarm clock on the nightstand showed exactly 8 a.m. Beside me, Winnie was already sitting up. She was in her silk robe, back turned, the curve of her spine giving off a chill that made her seem untouchable.

Then came that familiar move. She reached out, a few crisp white pages pinched between her fingers, and gently set them on the nightstand. "Zack, let's get a divorce."

That line again. This was the third time I'd heard it, but my heart still felt like it was being squeezed by a rough hand, so tight I ached and trembled. I didn't look at the papers. Instead, I scrambled out of bed.

"Winnie, you must be hungry. Let me make you some breakfast," I said, my voice trembling with a desperate, fawning urgency, like a drowning man clawing for a lifeline.

I dashed into the kitchen, fumbling with the stove. The flame shot up with a whoosh, its light flickering in my bloodshot eyes from another sleepless night.

I remembered when we first started dating, Winnie loved my sunny-side-up eggs. I carefully cracked the shell, watching the clear whites turn opaque in the pan, the edges sizzling golden and crispy.

I held my breath, sliding the egg onto a plate right before the yolk fully set.

Then I rushed back to the bedroom and dug through the closet for that faded white shirt, the one Winnie gave me as a birthday present back in her junior year of college.

I forced my now-chubbier body into it, the buttons straining against my chest, almost suffocating me.

When I walked out with the plate, fussing with my collar, Winnie was sitting on the couch.

She didn't look at the breakfast. Instead, she stared at me, her gaze so cold and sharp it made my skin crawl.

"Eat it while it's hot. Your favorite..." I said, handing her the fork with a stiff, forced smile.

Winnie didn't take it. She glanced at the gently trembling yolk, then looked up at my chest, a self-deprecating smile curling at her lips.

"Zack, first off, I'm deathly allergic to eggs. I ate them because I didn't want to embarrass you, but that never meant I actually liked them." Her voice hit me like shattered ice.

I stood there, stunned, the plate in my hand shaking.

"Second." She stood up and tapped my chest with her finger. "You buttoned your shirt wrong. The third button's in the fourth hole. Right now, you look like a pathetic actor in a cheap comedy."

The disgust in her eyes was unmistakable, sharp as a scalpel slicing through the illusion of warmth I'd worked so hard to create. "Zack, don't you ever get tired of putting on this act?"

*****

This was the tenth time. As sunlight flickered over the divorce papers again, I didn't bother rushing to the kitchen or squeezing into that suffocating shirt.

My stomach twisted with nausea. After nine days of living the same nightmare, my body couldn't take it anymore. I watched Winnie get up, listening mechanically as she pronounced our marriage dead in that cold, lifeless tone.

I lit a cigarette, the sharp nicotine burning my throat and setting off a harsh cough.

"Whatever. Do what you want," I said coldly.

For the next few hours, I played the part of a defeated loser, shutting myself off from everything.

I sprawled out on the living room couch, a damp towel covering my eyes, not to rest, but to hide the fact that I was watching the gap beneath the study door like a hawk.