I walked on
board Flight 587 from Paris to New York, showed my ticket to the
flight attendant, then walked though first class, where I usually
sat, and continued back to coach. At Row 22, I stopped and looked
down at the man sitting in Seat A, the man who I knew would be there,
the man who had been having an affair with my wife for the past
I sat down in Seat B.
Jean-Louis Vachon did not look up from the pages of Le Monde, for
he was not a man to be bothered with nods of hello to other travelers.
I have known him for nine years, but I wasn't sure how I'd react
this time. Five days ago, a computer at home malfunctioned, restoring
a hundred deleted files. My wife's words to Vachon left me no room
What did I feel when I learned the truth? Bewilderment and bitterness,
rage and a sick despair - and I felt them all at once. I have not
told her that I know, but each day I struggle to hide my anger,
while every night my best and sweetest memories of love are turned
into nightmares - with the Frenchman in my place.
I want to know who to blame. Her? Him? Probably both. I'm trying
to think clearly now, trying to get back to who I am. Revenge is
tempting, but I'm going to solve this problem for good.
(End of excerpt)