When My Wife Came Home At 11:04 P.M. Smirking And Confessed She Had Slept With Her Boss, She Expected Me To Shatter At The Kitchen Table—But While She Thought She Was Destroying A Faithful Old Husband With One Cruel Sentence, She Had No Idea The Quiet Man Finishing His Homemade Soup Had Already Uncovered The Affair, Followed The Money, Rebuilt The Business In Secret, And Was About To Walk Away So Completely That By Sunrise She Would Wake Up To An Empty House, A Dead Account, A Public Scandal, And The Ruins Of The Life She Thought She Controlled…

He shrugged. “You want politeness, marry a florist.”

I stared out the window at Jefferson Avenue, people hustling past with phones pressed to their ears and iced coffees in hand, everyone in a hurry to continue whatever life they were in the middle of.

“I think Paula’s cheating,” I said.

Dave stopped reaching for the ketchup.

“You think,” he repeated, “or you know?”

“I think.”

“That’s a dangerous place to live.”

“I know.”

He leaned back. “How long?”

“Long enough to be embarrassed by it.”

“Same guy?”

“I don’t know.”

He studied me for a few seconds. “You want my honest answer?”

“I didn’t come for your diplomatic one.”

He nodded once. “If you suspect it and you’re still sitting here talking in maybes, then whatever’s wrong is already older than the affair.”

That hit because it was true.