A REAL WOMAN

We’d been married for fifteen years when he said he was leaving me because he ‘needed to find himself’.
“Looking through the bottom of a beer glass has given you a distorted view of everything, including yourself,” I told him.
“It didn’t make you look any prettier either,” he snarled back. “Next time I’ll find myself a real woman.”
“You’ll be lucky – have you looked in a mirror lately?”

A couple of months later I went to a barbecue and there he was, large as life – in fact, even larger, with his shirt bulging over his beer-gut – but he had a stunner of a girl hanging on his arm, obviously drinking in every word he uttered. They strolled across the patio and he said, with a smirk curling his fat lips, “You’re still single, I hear. I always suspected you and Hazel were an item.”
I wasn’t about to dignify that with a response, so I just smiled at his date and said, “Hi.” She said, “Hi” back, displaying immaculate teeth, and he tightened his grip round her back, sliding one hand under her arm to grope a bosom, all the time watching my face for a reaction.
He was too preoccupied to notice that he’d pulled her dress off her shoulder, revealing the join where his ‘real’ woman’s arm was attached to her body.