My Ex-Wife Will Regret Leaving Me

My name is Sean Barnes, and at twenty-seven, I am a man who has already seen the fraying edges of a life poorly lived. In my younger years, I was the quintessential definition of a drifter—lazy, unmotivated, and prone to idling away my hours while others built their futures. That lack of ambition came with a heavy price. We had no savings, no safety net, and when our child turned three, the thin veneer of our domestic life finally cracked. My wife, unable to endure the poverty and my lack of direction, packed her bags and vanished, leaving behind a void that I was ill-equipped to fill.

It was only through the grace and grueling labor of my aging parents that I managed to claw back some semblance of stability. They stepped in when I was failing, helping me raise my son into the bright, energetic nine-year-old he is today. He’s in the third grade now, sharp-witted and maintaining decent enough grades, though I often worry he inherited my restlessness. Thankfully, with my parents acting as the anchor of our household, I don’t have to fret over his daily needs as much as a single father otherwise might.

Seeing my plight and the precarious state of my family, the local committee decided to throw me a bone. They helped me secure a licensed rickshaw—a modest, three-wheeled vehicle that became my primary source of income. It isn’t glamorous work. It requires strong legs and a thick skin, pedaling through the humid streets to earn a few meager dollars at a time. I’ve carved out a niche for myself in the late-night circuit, specifically positioning myself outside the neon-drenched facades of KTV bars and nightclubs. There is a certain atmosphere to those places after midnight—a cocktail of expensive perfume, stale alcohol, and the desperate energy of people trying to outrun their own shadows.

I prefer the night shift for a reason that I’m not particularly proud of. When luck is on my side, I encounter young women who have had far too much to drink. In their semi-conscious state, as I help them into the back of my rickshaw, I occasionally find excuses to let my hands linger, brushing against a shoulder or a waist. Those fleeting moments of contact, the warmth of another human being, provide a hollow sort of fuel that keeps me going for weeks. Of course, I’m not a monster; the idea of taking advantage of a completely unconscious woman—"picking up a dead fish," as the locals call it—is a line I only cross in the darkest corners of my imagination. I’m a man who hasn't touched a woman in years, and the sight of a beautiful girl walking past can trigger a physical ache in my chest that is hard to suppress.

I’ve considered seeking out professional company, but the fear holds me back. In this district, rumors of a localized HIV outbreak have been spreading like wildfire through the dive bars and back alleys. I’m not even thirty yet, and while my life seems to be heading toward a mediocre dead end, I’m not ready to see the final curtain fall just yet. I’d rather live in frustration than die in a hospital ward.

Tonight, the bright lights and wine of the city seemed particularly vibrant. The air was thick with the scent of rain and exhaust, but the business was booming. Within just two hours, I had already shuttled over a dozen fares, pocketing nearly fifteen dollars—a small fortune in my line of work. I was secretly thrilled; maybe tonight I could afford a pack of premium cigarettes instead of the cheap, harsh ones I usually settle for. I checked my phone—nearly 1:00 AM. I decided to try for one last fare before heading back to the cramped apartment I share with my parents and son.

That was when I saw a figure that made my heart skip a beat. It was a woman whose gait and silhouette were hauntingly familiar. It looked exactly like Emma Hopkins, my ex-wife. She was draped in heavy, garish makeup and wearing a dress so revealing it bordered on the scandalous. Trailing behind her were two young men in cheap suits—thugs trying to look like businessmen, their swagger betrayed by their shifty eyes. They were scanning the crowd, looking for someone or something.

The last thing I wanted was for that social-climbing, narcissistic woman to see me in my current state—a sweaty rickshaw driver hauling a rusted bike. I quickly turned my head, feigning interest in a nearby flyer until they disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway about ten seconds later.

As the tension left my shoulders, my gaze drifted to a public bench tucked beneath the deep shade of a sprawling oak tree near the KTV entrance. A woman was slumped there, her thin frame draped in a sharp, professional business suit. My pulse quickened. I coasted the rickshaw over to the curb and whispered, "Miss? Do you need a ride?"

Silence. I tried again, a bit louder this time. Still nothing.

Gaining a bit of bravado, I climbed off the seat and stepped closer. The smell hit me immediately—the pungent, sour odor of expensive liquor mixed with the unmistakable scent of someone who had recently been sick. I’d dealt with enough drunks to be unfazed by it. She was out cold, her head lolling to the side. As I leaned in, her blazer shifted, revealing the pale, creamy curve of her chest. My breath hitched. She was stunning—radiant even in her disheveled state. I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

I glanced around. The street was deserted.

"Miss! Wake up!" I said, my voice a low rasp. I reached out and tapped her bare shoulder. The skin was velvet-soft, and the contact sent a literal jolt of electricity through my arm, settling deep in my gut.

She groaned. "Mmm..."

I instinctively pulled my hand back, feeling a wave of disappointment, but then she reached out blindly. Her hand caught my sleeve, her grip surprisingly desperate. "Take... take me home. Quickly..."

The effort seemed to drain her. she collapsed back against the wooden slats of the bench. In the amber glow of the streetlamp, I finally got a good look at her face. She was exquisite. I’ve transported plenty of beautiful women in my time, but this girl possessed a purity of feature that felt out of place in this part of town. I found myself licking my dry lips, my eyes wandering back to the rise and fall of her chest. The professional attire only served to emphasize her curves, which moved rhythmically with her shallow breathing. It was a sight that made it difficult to draw a full breath.

Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, a symptom of the alcohol that only enhanced her allure. Despite the risk of her waking up fully and screaming, I couldn't help myself. I nudged her shoulder again. "Miss, where do you live? I need an address."

She struggled to open her eyes, her fingers massaging her temples as if trying to push back a mounting migraine. "The... Riverwood Estates..."

My eyebrows shot up. Riverwood Estates was the premier luxury development in the city. Even the smallest studio apartment there would cost upwards of a thousand dollars a month in rent—far beyond the reach of someone like me.

"Understood," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "Do you need help getting to the bike?"

She gave a sluggish, heavy nod. "Yes..."

That was all the permission I needed. I reached down and slid my arm under her armpit to hoist her up. As I did, I let my hand wander, my palm pressing firmly against the side of her breast. I told myself I was just stabilizing her, but I was really seeking the thrill of that soft, elastic resistance.

Suddenly, her knees buckled. She had no strength in her legs at all, and she began to pitch forward toward the pavement. "Careful!" I hissed, throwing out my left arm to catch her. She landed hard against me, her chest flattening against my forearm. I didn't pull away. Instead, I let my fingers curl, giving her a firm, hidden squeeze. She was incredibly lush—far more than my single hand could fully encompass.

I shot a quick look at her face to see if she’d noticed. Her eyes remained closed, though her blush seemed to deepen. Heart pounding against my ribs, I maneuvered her so she was leaning heavily against my shoulder. I didn't want to let go. I wanted to tear away the silk and cotton and see what I was holding, but I wasn't that reckless. I kept my right hand anchored just below the swell of her chest, savoring the warmth as I guided her into the back seat of the rickshaw.

She sprawled out across the vinyl bench, her legs dangling weakly over the edge. She was wearing a short skirt, and from my vantage point as I prepared to pedal, the view was... revealing. I caught a glimpse of lace—deep purple.

I took a long, shaky breath, forcing down the primal urge to climb into the back with her. I had a job to do, and a high-end destination meant a high-end tip. I kicked the pedals into motion, and we began the slow trek toward Riverwood Estates.

The neighborhood wasn't far from where my son went to school—a high-priced district known for its manicured lawns and silent streets. I knew the route well; I usually made at least one or two trips this way every night, dropping off revelers who lived in the ivory towers far removed from my world.

Ten minutes later, we arrived at the ornate iron gates of the complex. Along the way, we had passed several dim, hourly-rate motels. Every time I saw a neon "Vacancy" sign, a dark part of my mind screamed at me to pull over and take her inside. But I kept pedaling.

The security guard at the gate recognized me; I was a frequent enough fixture in the area that he didn't give me any trouble. He glanced at the slumped woman in the back, assumed she was just another resident who’d had a long night, and buzzed me through without a word.

Inside the gates, the world changed. The noise of the city faded, replaced by the hushed whisper of wind through the trees and the faint splash of decorative fountains. The lighting was moody and dim, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. I pulled the rickshaw into a designated parking area and turned around. She was still out, her consciousness drifting in the heavy fog of intoxication.

I didn't know which building was hers, so I shook her arm gently. "Miss? We're here. I need to know the apartment number."

She didn't move at first. I tapped her again, a bit more firmly. Finally, she stirred. "Keys... in the bag... tag has the number..."

I reached into her designer handbag and fished out a heavy brass key ring. The plastic tag was engraved: Building 8, Unit 2, #23.

Building 8 was right in front of us. I pulled the rickshaw up to the entrance and helped her out. She was like a ragdoll, her weight completely dependent on me as I hauled her toward the elevator.