After returning home from a six-month business trip, I discovered my boyfriend had found himself a dining companion. She bustled about in the kitchen, preparing three dishes and a soup, looking more like the lady of the house than I did, appearing incredibly domestic. As we were about to sit down for dinner, she cradled matching couple’s bowls—hers and my boyfriend’s—in both hands, and with a sheepish expression, stuck her tongue out at me. “Oh dear, I forgot we only have one set of bowls and chopsticks.” “Susan, let me find you something to put your rice in.” In front of Harrison, she served me rice in a disposable plastic bowl. Harrison offered no comment whatsoever. I understood then that I needed to break up with Harrison.
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