'Traceless' by Kelli Short Borges

If the familiar scent of lilac hadn’t clung to his sports coat that evening, if she hadn’t sneaked from the marriage bed into the shadow of his den, hadn’t slid a hand into that same coat pocket, hadn’t rifled through the business cards gum keys cigarettes receipts of his life, hadn’t found the scrap of paper, hadn’t seen the sprawling script of her best friend Delilah, the words hot and hotel and fuck and tomorrow, hadn’t silently crawled back to bed, burning, hadn’t remembered the promise he made, “Never again,” hadn’t followed him the next afternoon to the Lazy Dayz Motel, hadn’t seen them slip into room 203, his hand on her ass, hadn’t peered through the blinds five minutes later, hadn’t stifled a scream—if she hadn’t—she wouldn’t have greeted him at the door two days later with a drink, watched his Adam’s apple bob as the glass was emptied, rinsed the last dregs of residue as he fell, erased google history.