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I opened a bottle of red wine and prepared his favorite—steamed king crab with garlic herb butter.
He loves crab but refuses to deal with cracking the shells himself—he can’t stand the way butter and fragments cling to his fingers, even through gloves. So, it’s always been me who prepares it for him.
I kept working… until the entire crab was cleaned and arranged.
Until my finger was nicked by a sharp edge of shell and began to bleed.
Until the skin around my nails grew tender and pale from handling the stubborn claws.
Alexander still hadn’t come back.
At one point, I accidentally brushed my eye with a finger glistening with garlic butter.
The sting made my eyes water, and tears I couldn’t hold back fell..
He didn’t come back all night.
It was nearly 6 a.m. when he finally walked in, holding a tired-looking bouquet of roses.
The crab meat, now cold, sat untouched in its pool of congealed butter.
When he saw me—waiting all night, still hoping—he had the decency to look slightly guilty.
His voice softened: "Sorry, I got tied up last night. Evelyn, happy belated birthday. But I brought you cake."
He remembered my birthday!
All my disappointment seemed to dissolve in that moment, replaced by fragile joy.
He handed me a paper bag with the cake.
Kissed my cheek and said, "Happy Birthday."
Then went straight to the shower.
I smiled, touching my warm cheek.
While he showered.
I opened the cake box.
A small ice cream cake had melted into a sad, soupy puddle—hardly recognizable.
Not exactly pretty.
But I ate a spoonful anyway.
Stale cake, bad texture, overly sweet.
But Alexander brought it especially for me.
I waited for him to finish showering.
Feeling pretty good, I picked up my phone.
Planning to post a moment to remember the night.
But someone had beaten me to posting about Alexander.
A nine-photo collage glared back at me.
Bella holding a bouquet of roses bigger than her, snuggled into Alexander’s arms like a girl in love.
A picture of Alexander carefully cracking open a king crab leg for Bella, his usually pristine fingers shiny with butter— yet not a hint of disgust on his face, just a slight smile.
The last photo was of an ice cream cake.
It looked suspiciously like the melted mess he had just given me.
The caption read: Thanks to my awesome mentor for spending my birthday with me! A man who cracks crab for you is the sweetest. . (PS: That homemade ice cream cake tasted like heaven, best ever! And the roses were gorgeous~)
My whole body started trembling uncontrollably.
I looked at the eleven droopy roses he gave me, then at the ninety-nine vibrant, dewy roses in Bella’s arms.
The irony was suffocating.
So the cake he “brought” me
was meant for her all along—and what I got was nothing but the remains..
He said he was busy.
Busy all night celebrating another woman’s birthday.
The aftertaste of the cake turned heavy and bitter on my tongue.
