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 at night and headed straight for the shower. He didnt even bother to take his shoes off at the door; he tossed his blazer onto a chair and vanished into the bathroom as if a blast of water could wash the whole day’s grime away.

I could hear the tap being turned to full blast, the steam swallowing the cubicle. Minutes ticked by, and I counted them in my head the way I used to count the swings of the old playground set: one, two, threefar too long.

When he emerged, his hair was still damp, and he smelled of a different aftershave than usual; somewhere between a citrus burst a sweet, foreign note slipped through.

I’m knackered, he muttered, avoiding my eyes. Ill tell you everything tomorrow. I nodded and even managed a smileone of those halfhearted grins that hold the cheeks in place but not the heart.

Alone in the kitchen with his blazer, I slipped it onto my arm to hang it in the wardrobe. As I were about to place it on the peg, something rustled in the pocket. Instinctively I reached in and a folded receipt slipped out, still warm as if it were trying to keep a secret it shouldn’t have.

The paper trembled between my fingers. I spread it on the table. The elegant restaurants logo, a downtown address, the time stamped 22:41. Dinner for two. Two coffees, a bottle of red wine, two starters, two desserts. Two.

In the first instant my brain did what it always does in moments like this: it tried to rationalise the reality. Maybe a client. Maybe a supplier. Maybe a work emergency. I ran my finger over the dish names that sounded like a chefs chuckle at my naïveté: carpaccio, fillet, tiramisu. He never liked tiramisu. I do.

I slipped the bill into a drawer, yet the whole night it whispered. I got up, paced the flat, opened the fridge, sipped tap water, stared at the totalamount plus tip. Silly numbers that felt heavier than the whole blazer.

In the morning we both pretended nothing had happened. I brewed a coffee and set a sandwich before him. He pretended not to notice the trembling butter on the bread. Another long day, he said, scrolling rapidly on his phone.

Big client, new project, he added, pulling the same blazer on again. For a split second I lifted my hand to stop him, to say, Stay. Lets talk. I never said it. The door closed quietly behind him.

After work I walked to the address on the receipt. I didnt know whymaybe to see if the place existed beyond my imagination. It did. Brick arches, dim light, a window displaying glasses that glimmered like polished promises.

I sat on a bench opposite. Inside, a waiter was pulling chairs, setting tables. I grabbed 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 went in for five minutes. Table for one? the waiter asked with a smile. No, thank you. Just do you have any bookings for tonight? He glanced at his notebook. Plenty. Thursdays are always full. I hesitated. What about yesterday? At nine?

He squinted. Yesterday was packed. The same faces keep coming back though I dont remember all of them. He gave an apologetic grin. Perhaps a corner table by the pillar? I nodded, though I hadnt asked that.

That evening, before he returned, I pulled the receipt from the drawer and laid it on the table beneath a linen napkinlike a hidden card waiting to be turned up. He came home late, ate his soup, praised it, then headed for that long shower again. The water hammered the tiles like a drum. I slipped out of the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door with an open hand.

May I come in? I asked.

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

Soon, tomorrow, later. Words that once marked a tidy schedule now felt like a debt being rolled over with interest.

He finally explained. It was a business dinner. A client from Manchester who doesnt drink alone. He tried to justify it, saying, You know how it is. They ordered tiramisu because it was part of the set. While he spoke, his eyes flicked away from mine, as if afraid the truth might read itself there.

Why the immediate shower? I asked. You didnt smell like the office.

I was 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 the halftruth thats the coziest lie to tuck under a pillow. I worked, I was there, I had to. No room for we.

During the night I rose again, brewed tea, opened and closed the fridge, lifted the napkin, uncovered it, pulled out the receipt, tucked it back inlike a child checking that a magic trick works every single time.

The next day he sent me a photo from the office: him, his mates, a pizza box. Tough day, fingers crossed, the caption read. I crossed my fingers. Later, alone, I wandered into a shopping centre, into a perfume counter, and swiped my wrist with a tester strip. The scentAmber Somethingwas pricey, elegant, marketed as unisex but shelved under for her. I told myself it was the companys new campaign: men and women now smell 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 phonenot snooping, just a peripheral glanceand saw a notification: Thanks for yesterday. See you soon. No name, no saved number. 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 set it aside, then took it back, tore the page out, tossed it in the bin, retrieved it, smoothed it, and slipped it into the drawer with the receipt.

That night, as he drifted off, I asked, Do you have anything to say before I start making up the ending myself?

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 a other involved. Im not sure a dinner for two counts as betrayal, or just life slipping into a lane we hadnt mapped. I do know something shifted. The shower water no longer rinses everything away. The receipt, even crumpled into a ball, leaves stubborn numbers in memory that refuse to be erased.

Today I placed that receipt on the tablenot 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. Maybe hell walk in, look at it and say, I overstepped. I was scared. I didnt mean to hurt you. Or perhaps, Dont trust receipts more than you trust me. Or maybe hell simply throw the paper in the bin and ask, What do you feel like eating tonight?

And then Ill have to choose what scares me more: an answer that confirms my fears, or a silence that feeds them. Perhaps the bravest move will be the thirdlooking not into someone elses eyes but into my own heart, to see if we can still order for two without a bill in sight.

I have no solution yet. I do have a table set for two and a slip of paper that says less than we thinkand more than wed like. What Ill do with it? Im not sure. Sometimes the receipt isnt the truthteller; its how long we can stare at it together.