He got home late at night and headed straight for the shower. He didnt even have time to take his shoes off at the door; he flung his blazer onto a chair and disappeared into the bathroom, as if a hot blast of water could wash the whole day away.
I heard the tap turning fulltilt, the cabin fogging up like a sauna. Minutes ticked by, and I counted them in my head the way I used to count the swings of a playground seesaw: one, two, threetoo long.
When he emerged, his hair was still damp and he smelled of a different cologne than usual; somewhere between a citrus zing and a sweet, foreign note.
Im knackered, he muttered, avoiding my eyes. Ill tell you tomorrow. I nodded, managed a smilethe sort that holds the cheeks together, not the heart.
I was left alone in the kitchen with his blazer. I took it in my hands to hang it in the wardrobe. As I slipped it onto the rail, something rustled in the pocket. Instinctively I reached in and a neatly folded receipt slid out. It was 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 spread it on the table. An elegant restaurant logo, address in the city centre, time stamped 22:41. Dinner for two. Two coffees, a bottle of red wine, two starters, two desserts. Two.
The first thought that popped into my brain was the usual emergencymode brainwash: Maybe a client. Maybe a contractor. Maybe someone from work in need. I ran my finger over the dish namescarpaccio, fillet, tiramisu. He hates tiramisu. I love it.
I tucked the receipt into the drawer, but the whole night it rustled. I got up, paced the flat, peered into the fridge, sipped tap water, stared at the total at the bottom: the amount, the tip. Silly numbers that felt heavier than the whole blazer.
In the morning we both pretended nothing had happened. I brewed coffee, set a toast in front of him. He pretended not to notice the trembling butter on the slice. Long night again, he said, scrolling through his phone a little too fast.
Big client, new project, he mumbled, slipping the same blazer back on. For a heartbeat I lifted my hand, as if to stop himto 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 whymaybe to see if the place existed outside my head. It did. A brick façade, dim light, a window display of glasses glittering like polished promises.
I sat on a bench opposite. Inside a waiter was pulling chairs and setting tables. I fished out my phone, opened the camera, but didnt snap a picture. I wasnt trying to turn the story into evidence; I just wanted to understand.
I stepped in for five minutes. Table for one, maam? the waiter asked, smiling. No, thank you. Just do you have any reservations for tonight? He checked his notebook. Plenty. Thursdays are always busy. I hesitated. And yesterday? At nine?
He squinted. Yesterday was a rush. We see the same faces often I dont remember everyone. He offered an apologetic grin. Maybe a corner table by the pillar? I nodded, though I hadnt actually asked that. I left feeling a strange weight on my neck, even though no one was looking.
That evening, before he came back, I slipped the receipt out of the drawer and laid it on the table beneath a linen napkinlike a hidden card in a solitaire game, waiting to be uncovered. He returned late, ate his soup and declared it delicious, then lumbered to the shower, staying longer than the night before. I heard the water hammering the tiles like a drum. I stepped from the kitchen to the bathroom and knocked on the door with an open hand.
May I come in? I asked.
Give me five minutes, he shouted back. Ill tell you everything in a sec.
Soon. Tomorrow. Later. Words that once only marked the clock now sounded like a debt being rolled over with interest.
He finally spilled the beans. It was a business dinner. A client from Manchester who never drinks alone. He tried to explain, but you know how it is. Theyd ordered tiramisu because it was on the set menu. While he spoke, his eyes darted away from mine, as if afraid the truth might read him.
Why the immediate shower? I asked. You didnt smell like a warehouse.
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 offering a halftruth, the coziest kind of lie you can hug under a pillow. I worked, I was, I had to. Phrases that leave no room for we.
That night I got up again. I brewed tea, opened and closed the fridge, lifted the napkin, folded it, unfolded it. I pulled the receipt out, tucked it back inlike a child checking whether a magic trick still works.
The next day he sent me a photo from the office: him, colleagues, a pizza box. Hard day, fingers crossed. I crossed my fingers. Later I wandered into a shopping centre, into a perfume shop, rubbed my wrist with a test strip of the scent Id caught last night. It was Amber Noirexpensive, elegant, marketed as unisex but shelved under for her. I told myself it was a new corporate campaign, the new standard that men and women now smell the same.
On Saturday he suggested a cinema. I agreed. We sat sidebyside, shared a bucket of popcorn. Midfilm I glanced at his phonenot spying, just a peripheral glancesaw a notification: Thanks for yesterday. See you soon. No name, no saved number. It vanished before it could fully appear. It could have been a client. It could have been the waiter. It could have been 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, pulled it out again, tore the page, tossed it in the bin, retrieved it, smoothed it, tucked it back into the drawer with the receipt.
That evening, as he drifted off, I asked,
Do you have anything to tell me before I start making up my own story?
Nothing that would hurt you, he mumbled, nestling his face into his pillow. Really.
One sentence can weigh more than a simple yes or no.
Im not sure there was another person involved. Im not sure a dinner for two equates to betrayal, or simply life slipping off the script we wrote. I do know something shifted. A shower cant wash everything away. And a crumpled receipt, even if rolled into a ball, leaves behind numbers that refuse to be erased.
Today I placed that receipt on the tablenot on his side of the plate, but in the middle, 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 return. Perhaps hell walk in, look at it, and say, I overreacted. I was scared. I didnt want to hurt you. Or maybe, Dont trust the bills more than you trust me. Or perhaps hell simply toss the paper in the bin and ask what Id like for dinner.
Then Ill have to choose what I fear more: an answer that confirms my anxieties, or the silence that feeds them. Maybe the bravest move is the thirdstop looking for clues in other peoples eyes and check my own heart, to see whether we can still order for two.
I have no solution yet. All I have is a table set for two and a slip of paper that says less than it seemsand more than wed like. What Ill do with it? Im not sure. Sometimes it isnt the receipt that reveals the truth, but how long we can stare at it together.
