Betrayal is everywhere you turn. And most of the time, it’s so boring, no one would ever bother to write about it: the coat that slid from the hanger and lies wrinkled at the bottom of your closet; two tiny bodies that succumbed to starvation after his assurance that he checks the traps daily; coffee and doughnuts and a hearty thank-you for the repair guy who took his sweet-ass time—the one you berated me for calling.
The apologies show up now and again: when the evidence is so compelling there’s no point in denial.
Then there are the friends who drop out of your life, one by one: sometimes with a bang, but mostly with an unanswered email and no chance to understand.
The worst is betrayal of the self. I would put those guilty of that in the lowest circle of hell, but I don’t believe in hell, and the lowest circle is supposed to be the smallest, not the biggest.
