He came home late at night and headed straight for the shower. He didnt even bother to take off his shoes at the door; he flung his blazer onto the armchair and vanished into the bathroom as if the water could wash away the whole day.
I could hear him turning the tap on full blast, the shower cabin filling with steam. Minutes ticked by and I counted them in my head the way I once counted the swings on the backyard playground: one, two, three too long.
When he emerged his hair was still damp, his scent different from his usual aftershave; a citrus note was pierced by an odd, sweet chord.
Im knackered, he muttered, avoiding my eyes. Ill tell you tomorrow. I nodded, forced a smile one of those smiles that hold the cheeks, not the heart.
I was left alone in the kitchen with his blazer. I slipped it into my hands to hang it in the wardrobe. As I placed it on the hanger something rustled in the pocket. Instinctively I reached in and a folded receipt slipped out, still warm from his body, as if it were trying to hide a secret I wasnt meant to uncover.
The paper trembled between my fingers. I unfolded it on the table. The elegant restaurants logo, address in the West End, time 22:41. Dinner for two. Two coffees, a bottle of red wine, two starters, two desserts. Two.
In that first second my brain did what it always does in moments like this: it tried to rescue reality. Maybe a client. Maybe a contractor. Maybe someone from work in need. I ran my finger over the dish names carpaccio, fillet, tiramisu. He never liked tiramisu. I do.
I slipped the receipt into a drawer, but all night I could hear it rustle. I got up, paced the flat, peeked into the fridge, drank tap water, stared at the total at the bottom the sum, the tip. Foolish figures that weighed more than the whole blazer.
Come morning we both pretended nothing had happened. I brewed coffee and set a sandwich before him. He pretended not to notice my trembling hand spreading butter on the bread. Another long day, he said, scrolling rapidly on his phone.
Big client, new project. I watched him pull on the same blazer. For a split second I raised my hand to stop him, to say, Stay. Lets talk. I didnt. The door shut silently behind him.
After work I went to the address on the receipt. I wasnt sure why maybe to see if the place existed beyond my imagination. It did. Brick façade, dim light, a display case of glasses glinting like polished promises.
I sat on a bench opposite. Inside, a waiter pushed chairs around, set tables. I took out my phone, opened the camera, but didnt snap a picture. I didnt want to turn the story into evidence. I wanted to understand.
I walked in for five minutes. Table for one? the waiter asked with a smile. No, thank you. Just do you have a reservation for today? He checked his notebook. Plenty. Thursdays are always busy here. I hesitated. And yesterday? At nine?
He narrowed his eyes. Yesterday was packed. The same faces keep coming back although I dont recognise everyone. He smiled apologetically. Perhaps a corner table by the pillar? I nodded, though that wasnt really what Id asked. I left feeling the weight of unseen glances on my neck, even though no one was looking.
That evening, before he got back, I pulled the receipt from the drawer and laid it on the table under a linen napkin like a hidden card waiting to be turned. He returned late, ate the soup and said it was delicious, then headed for the shower, staying under the water longer than the night before. I heard the cascade beat against the tiles like a drum. I slipped out of the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door with my hand.
May I come in? I asked.
Give me five minutes, he called out. Ill tell you everything straight away.
Soon. Tomorrow. Later. Words that once only marked the flow of a day now sounded like a debt rolled up with interest.
He explained it was a business dinner. A client from Manchester who doesnt drink alone. He said hed tried to explain, but you know how it is. Theyd ordered tiramisu because it was part of the set. While he spoke, his gaze lingered just beyond my eyes, as if he feared I might read something there.
Why the shower straight away? I asked. You didnt smell like the office.
I felt exhausted, he replied. And I wanted to warm up. You know how easily I catch a cold.
He could have been right. He could have been lying. He could have been telling halftruths, the kind that tuck themselves under a pillow. I worked, I was there, I had to. Phrases that leave no room for we.
That night I rose again. I brewed tea, opened and closed the fridge, lifted the napkin, covered it, uncovered it. I pulled the receipt out, slipped it back in, like a child testing whether a magic trick works every time.
The next day he sent me a photo from the office him, his mates, a pizza in a cardboard box. Hard day, fingers crossed. I crossed my fingers. Later I wandered into a shopping centre, into a perfumery. I swiped my wrist across the tester strip of a scent Id smelled last night. Amber something. Expensive, elegant, marketed as unisex but shelved under for her. I told myself it was a new campaign, a new standard at work, that men and women now smelled the same.
On Saturday he suggested a cinema. I agreed. We sat side by side, sharing a bucket of popcorn. Midfilm I glanced at his phone, not to pry, just out of habit. A notification flashed: Thanks for yesterday. See you soon. No name, no saved number. It vanished before I could read it fully. It could have been the client, the waiter, anyone hed helped, advised, promised. It could have been someone hed rather not name in front of me.
On Sunday I took a diary and wrote three lines: Talk. Set boundaries. Ask the truth. I put it away. Then I pulled it out again, tore the page, tossed it in the bin, retrieved it, smoothed it, tucked it back in the drawer with the receipt.
That night, as he drifted off, I asked, Do you have anything to tell me before I start filling in the blanks myself?
Nothing that would hurt you, he whispered, pressing his face into the pillow. Really.
One sentence can sometimes weigh more than a yes or a no.
Im not sure there was any other. I dont know whether a dinner for two counts as betrayal or simply a life that slips in a direction we never planned. I do know something changed. The shower water doesnt wash everything away. The receipt, though you could crumple it into a ball, leaves simple numbers in my memory that refuse to be erased.
Today I placed that receipt on the table not on his side of the plate, but in the centre, like a shared dish we both must decide whether were still hungry for. I brewed tea in two mugs.
I sit and wait for him to come back. Perhaps hell walk in, look at me and say, I overstepped. I was scared. I never meant to hurt you. Or perhaps hell say, Dont trust the bills more than you trust me. Or maybe hell simply toss the paper in the bin and ask what Id like for dinner.
Then Ill have to choose what Im more afraid of: an answer that confirms my fears, or the silence that feeds them. Perhaps the bravest move will be the third not to look for answers in anyone elses eyes, but to check my own heart and see if we can still order for two.
I have no solution yet. I do have a table set for two and a piece of paper that says less than we think and more than wed like. What Ill do with it, Im not sure. Sometimes the receipt doesnt reveal the truth; its how long we can stare at it together.
