#TFW you happen on her profile because his is still private
Insta-wife is hashtag #togetherforever #marriedlife, 50-year-old face line-free, looks as loved up as at twenty-five, posting pictures of their wedding #soyoung, their kids in graduation gowns #hardtobelieve #stillmybabies and as new-borns, of their travels around the sun; Insta-wife shines like that sun, positively glows in posts of their perfect set-up: her husband, #bestbloke, #mylife, #hisgirl, more hashtags than you could shake a spliff at; Insta-wife must be on drugs because how else could she exist - she is #so-smug (not some mug), but I want to tag her public page, tell her that life is a lie, the photos she posts of her kids #TBT, are the same on her fridge when I let her #donttouchhimhesmine f*** me, the same song lyrics she quotes as proof they are perfect for each other, those he played on his Bang and Olufsen when I let him bang and oh-love-sin me; I scroll, untwisting her timeline like he did my thong: down; decades in seconds and there is an old photo of him lying in the surf, the same #HughGrant hairstyle he had when he made me feel like a Hollywood star, taken in #paradise, like the postcard pinned above the sand-coloured carpet where his waves washed over me; Insta-wife has a perfect life, but in this scrolling, past unrolling, both reeling, I can’t help feeling sorry for her, with her story #mystory #history, our past glory, filtered like truths through throngs of followers, their little love-heart responses all the reality she needs.
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