The towel was pale blue with a frayed corner.

That detail bothers me more than it should. If it had been something glamorous, maybe I could pretend I was in a different kind of story. But it was just a towel from the YMCA, washed too many times, smelling like chlorine, sweat, and my lilac perfume.

My name is Renee. I was 42, divorced, and tired of being sensible.

Daniel was a contractor who came into the dental office where I worked with a cracked molar and a wedding ring he twisted every time he spoke.

He said his marriage to Paula was over in every way but paperwork. I had heard that line before and still let it sit in my lap like a gift.

He joined my gym in March.

By April he had a second towel in his bag for me. By May he was telling me Thursday nights were the only time he felt like himself.

He never called what we were doing an affair. He called it breathing.

That should have embarrassed me. It did not embarrass me enough.

The first time I sprayed the towel was an accident. I had changed after work, and my perfume leaked in my bag. Daniel laughed when he pulled the towel out.

Now I’ll smell like a rich aunt, he said.

A week later, he said Paula had asked about it.

What did you tell her?

He shrugged. That women at the gym hog the benches.

I laughed then. I hate that I laughed.

The night at Marco’s was supposed to be normal. Booth by the kitchen.

Garlic bread. Daniel complaining about invoices. He texted me at 5:52: Wear the green blouse.

I did.

At 6:18, Paula walked in alone.

She was not what he described. She wasn’t cold. She looked tired in the way women look tired when they have been doing everyone’s laundry and still being called difficult. She carried a plastic Piggly Wiggly bag pinched between two fingers.

Daniel went stiff.

Bathroom, he muttered.

But Paula had already seen him.

She stood beside the hostess stand with the bag in her hand. I could see the towel through the thin plastic. My towel. My perfume. My cheap little proof that I existed.

Daniel slid back into the booth and did not look at her.

Act like you don’t know her, he said.

That was the line that cut through the fog. Not because he was betraying Paula. I knew he was betraying Paula. Because he was ready to erase me too, right there between the bread basket and the Parmesan shaker.

I watched Paula walk toward us. Her knuckles were white around the bag.

I could have left. I almost did. I had my purse strap in my hand.

Instead I waved the hostess over.

Could we move to a larger table? I asked. My voice sounded so polite it scared me.

Daniel stared at me.

Renee, he said under his breath.

I took the towel from Paula when she reached the booth. She did not hand it to Daniel. She handed it to me, like she already knew.

There was a small white tag stitched to the corner I had never noticed before. Not YMCA.

SUNNYBROOK CHILD SWIM, THURSDAY 5:30.

Paula looked at the tag, then at Daniel.

Tell me whose child, she said.

Daniel opened his mouth, but I put the towel flat on the table between all three of us.