The Mistress

Poor Mrs Chan.  It began this summer.  He'd take me to his favourite haunts.  Some of these places, I've been with him before.  The staff is always welcoming.  We know them by name.

Perhaps it's the long absences.  Or my tendency to keep cutting, re-styling my hair.  Something changed this summer.  

This week, I observed, that change rear its head again, the moment we sat down for Thanksgiving dinner.

He tells me I am being over-sensitive.  But as an artist, I really see stories unfold before words are even exchanged.

It's what's not said.  The stealing glances.  The initial surprise that is then followed by a quick, professional, pleasant mask.  It is to Dr Chan that the warmest of welcomes are now solely directed at, and then with utmost discretion, we are always led to the most private of tables.

At lunch today, we were even offered, the private dining room!

On Friday night, the hostess realised her genuine mistake.  She rushed back to our table staring at me openly this time, excited and familiar.  

Mrs Chan, Mrs Chan!  Ni hao, ni hao!

I suspect it has also to do with the way he is so indulgent, doting.

  You can't quite fake intimacy, tenderness.  You can't fake, laughter.

Daughter, granddaughter, sister, cousin, wife, mother, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, friend-  

the gamut of roles I inhabit.

Now, a new one has been tossed my way.

I'm no longer just the Starter Wife, nor the Trophy Wife.

In this city?  They think I'm, The Mistress!