For over a year now, I've smelled her twat on his fingertips as he slipped into bed next to me. I've watched him ogle himself in the mirror, grooming like a horny baboon for their dates. I've listened to his lies, lies, lies - from simplistic child's fibs to elaborate Rube Goldbergian contraptions. I've tasted butterscotch on his dry-kiss lips, a cloying flavor that was never there before. I've felt the stubble on his cheeks that he knows I don't like but apparently she does. I've suffered betrayal with all five senses. For over a year.