arm of my replacement, Tiffany. She was twenty-five, poured into a designer dress that was a size too tight and a sense of entitlement that was tighter still. Her laughter was a little too loud, her gestures a little too theatrical. They were clearly showing off, and spotting me alone seemed to be an unexpected, delicious bonus for them.

Tiffany whispered something in Mark’s ear, a conspiratorial smile playing on her lips, and they were led by the maître d’, Jean-Pierre. Their path, of course, took them directly past my table. As Tiffany passed, she “stumbled” with the practiced clumsiness of a B-movie actress, sending a full glass of ice water cascading over my blouse and into my lap. The cold shock of the water soaked through to my skin, a sudden, jarring violation, but it was nothing compared to the icy satisfaction in her eyes.