When I reached the curtain, I tugged hard to open it in a dramatic fashion, “Come on back, Crystal. I’m dying to meet you.” The alcohol seemed to have numbed my legs too, because I lost my balance. I pulled down one side of the curtain, tumbling to the ground, wrapping and entangling myself in it. “Shhhit,” I called out from inside the velvet cocoon. This was not how I had intended to meet the woman who stole my husband. I had imagined it’d be more like when a commoner (Crystal) meets the Queen of England (me). Crystal would bend the knee, and I’d whack her head off with a sword. The royal
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