I clenched my jaw, not out of rage, but out of secondhand embarrassment. Watching them flirt was like watching two raccoons fight over a shiny trash can. They got into his car, a silver Lexus that screamed midlife crisis, and drove off. I followed at a respectable distance because, again, I'm not reckless. I'm strategic.
They headed downtown, right into the heart of temptation: the Ember Lounge, a bar so pretentious it served artisanal ice. I parked two blocks away, walked in like I belonged there, and found a spot in the corner booth. I ordered a drink. I didn't even want something with an umbrella and too much sugar, but blending in requires sacrifice.
And there they were, sitting at the bar like two rom-com extras who hadn't read the part where everything goes wrong. She laughed loudly, the kind of laugh she hadn't used around me in months. That hurt for about three seconds before I realized something. She was performing.
Overcompensating. Guilt has a laugh track, and hers was on full volume. I took out my phone, opened the camera app, and started recording. Photos, videos, timestamps.
Each one labeled in my notes like Netflix episodes. Episode One: Corporate Affairs. Episode Two: The Bonus She Didn't Earn. Episode Three: HR's Worst Nightmare.
I zoomed in just as he leaned closer, his hand brushing her thigh. I swear I could hear the distant sound of karma warming up its engines. At one point, she whispered something into his ear, and he laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink. I didn't know what she said, but it was probably something poetic like, "My husband still thinks meetings end after five."
My drink arrived. I raised a glass in a mock toast to myself. "Here's to loyalty," I muttered, taking a sip. It tasted like lies and lime.
I watched them for an hour. One hour of hand-holding, whispering, and touching that made me want to Clorox my memory. Around 9:15, they finally stood up. She adjusted her dress.
He adjusted his ego, and they headed out. I paid the bill, left a generous tip because I'm petty, not cheap, and followed them at a safe distance. They didn't go back to the office. They didn't even pretend to.
Instead, they went straight to the parking garage next door, where I caught them kissing under a flickering light. It looked less like romance and more like an HR complaint waiting to happen. I recorded everything. Every kiss, every touch, every bad decision illuminated by that one stubborn fluorescent bulb.
And as I filmed, I didn't feel heartbreak. I felt documentation. When they finally drove off in separate cars, I sat in the rental staring at my phone screen. It was all there, proof that could silence any courtroom dramatics.
I exhaled, leaned back, and said to myself, "You just turned pain into evidence. Congratulations. You're officially your own private investigator." Back home, I called Tar.
He picked up on the second ring, already chewing something. "You alive?" "Oh, I'm better than alive," I said. "I'm productive."
He laughed. "That sounds dangerous. What did you do?" "I have footage," I said.
"Video, timestamps, everything. It's like Discovery Channel for idiots in love." "No way. You followed her?"