He Came Home Late at Night and Immediately Took a Shower. In His Jacket Pocket, I Found a Bill for a Dinner for Two.

He got home late, practically stumbling straight into the shower. He didnt even bother taking his shoes off at the door; he tossed his blazer onto a chair and vanished into the bathroom like the water could wash the whole day away.

I could hear the tap turning fullblast, steam filling the cubicle. Minutes ticked by, and I counted them in my head the way I used to count the swings on the playground: one, two, three way too long.

When he finally emerged his hair still damp, he smelled of a different cologne than usual a citrus bite with a sweet, foreign twist.

Im knackered, he muttered, not meeting my eyes. Ill tell you everything tomorrow. I nodded, managed a smile the kind that holds the cheeks, not the heart.

I was left alone in the kitchen with his blazer. I grabbed it to hang it up. As I slipped it onto the coat rack, something rustled in the pocket. Instinctively I reached in and a folded receipt fell into my hand, 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. A sleek restaurants 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.

In that first second my brain did what it always does in moments like this tried to convince itself there was a sensible explanation. Maybe a client. Maybe a contract. Maybe a work emergency. I ran my finger over the dish names that sounded like a chefs chuckle at my naivety: carpaccio, fillet, tiramisu. He never orders tiramisu. I do.

I slipped the receipt into a drawer, but all night I could hear it rustle. I got up, paced the flat, opened the fridge, sipped tap water, kept staring at the total at the bottom: amount, tip. Silly numbers that felt heavier than the whole blazer.

In the morning we both pretended nothing had happened. I brewed coffee, set a sandwich in front of him. He acted like he didnt notice my shaking hand spreading butter. Long night again, he said, scrolling too fast on his phone.

Big client, new project, he said, slipping the same blazer back on. For a heartbeat I lifted my hand to stop him to say, Stay. Lets talk. I didnt. The door closed silently behind him.

After work I went to the address on the receipt, not sure why. Maybe to see if the place was real or just a trick of my mind. It was. Brick façade, dim light, a window display of glasses glinting like polished promises.

I sat on a bench opposite. Inside a waiter was pulling chairs, setting tables. I fumbled for my phone, turned on 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? the waiter asked with a smile. No, thank you. Just do you have any bookings for today? He checked his notebook. Plenty. Thursdays are always busy. I hesitated. And yesterday? At nine?

He squinted. Last night was packed. We see the same faces a lot though I cant recall everyone. He gave an apologetic grin. Maybe a corner table by the pillar? I nodded, even though that wasnt really my question. I left feeling the weight of unseen gazes, though no one seemed to be looking.

That evening, before he got back, I pulled the receipt out of the drawer and laid it on the table, tucked under a linen napkin like a hidden card in a solitaire game waiting to be turned. He came home late, praised the soup, then slipped into the shower for longer than the night before. I heard the water beat the tiles like a drum. I slipped out of the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door with an open hand.

Can I come in? I asked.

Give me five minutes, he called back. Ill tell you everything soon.

Soon, tomorrow, later. Words that used to just mark the day now sounded like a debt rolling over with interest.

He finally talked. It was a business dinner. A client from Manchester who doesnt drink alone. He tried to explain, but you know how it is. They ordered tiramisu because it was on the set menu. While saying that, his eyes darted just off mine, as if fearing Id read something in them.

Why the instant shower? I asked. You didnt smell like a warehouse.

I was exhausted, he said. 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 giving me a halftruth, the kind that makes you want to curl up with a pillow. I worked, I was, I had to. Words that leave no room for we.

That night I got up again, brewed tea, opened and closed the fridge, lifted and lowered the napkin, pulled the receipt out, tucked it back in. Like a kid checking if a magic trick works every single time.

The next day he sent me a photo from the office: him, a few mates, pizza in a box. Hard day, keep fingers crossed. I did. Later, alone, I walked into the shopping centre, into a perfume shop, rubbed my wrist on a tester strip. The scent was Amber Something. Expensive, elegant. Marketed as unisex but shelved under for her. I told myself it was a new campaign, a new standard men and women now smell the same.

On Saturday he suggested a movie. I said yes. We sat side by side, sharing a bucket of popcorn. Midfilm I glanced at his phone, not spying, just catching a glimpse of a notification: Thanks for yesterday. See you soon. No name, no number saved. It vanished before I could read it fully. It could have been a client. A waiter. Anyone hed helped, advised, promised. Someone hed rather not name in front of me.

On Sunday I grabbed a diary and wrote three lines: Talk. Set boundaries. Ask the truth. I put it away, took it back, tore out the page, tossed it in the bin, pulled it out again, smoothed it, and slipped it into the same drawer with the receipt.

That night, 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 murmured, pressing his face into the pillow. Really.

One sentence can weigh more than a simple yes or no.

Im not sure there was anyone else. I dont know if a dinner for two is betrayal or just life slipping into a direction we never planned. I do know something shifted. The shower water cant wash everything away. The receipt, even crumpled into a ball, leaves numbers in my mind 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 have to admit were hungry for. I brewed tea in two mugs.

I sit here waiting for him to come back. Maybe hell walk in, look at it and say, I went too far. I was scared. I didnt want to hurt you. Or maybe, Dont trust the receipts more than you trust me. Or maybe hell just toss the paper in the bin and ask what Id like for dinner.

And then Ill have to decide what scares me more: an answer that confirms my fears, or the silence that feeds them. Perhaps the bravest thing is the third option not looking for clues in someone elses eyes, but checking my own heart to see if we can still order for two.

I dont have a solution yet. I just have a table set for two and a slip of paper that says less than we think and more than wed like. What Ill do with it? Im not sure. Sometimes its not the receipt that tells the truth, but how long we can stare at it together.