The shopper looked to be about my age, blond, with slightly better taste in jeans. She was sorting through the pile of flannel shirts I had laid out but not yet folded, thinking I'd have time once I finished my coffee.
The morning was bright, still cool for Vermont, with a few too many singing birds for my taste - it was the day of my post-divorce yard sale.
The woman had stopped at the pile of my ex-husband's shirts. I watched her closely. She lifted one up and brought it to her nose as if to smell it. Then, thinking better - sensing me looking at it her- she put it back down.
She raised her eyes to mine and simply said, "James?"
That was the first time I met my husband's mistress.