Receipt in the Garden

While weeding our plot at the community garden, I dug up a crumpled hotel receipt for

a room for two—dated the same night Marcus said he was working late. My heart raced as

the logo of a lavish downtown hotel stared back at me, mocking the dirt under my fingernails.

This was our shared haven, the place we spent every Saturday morning, but now the sunlit

greenery felt cold and shadowed by doubt. I pocketed the slip, my hands trembling

as I walked toward our shared shed where he was fixing the gate. <break time="0.6s" /> "Marcus!"

I called out, my voice sharp enough to cut through the morning bird song. He looked up,

his smile vanishing as he saw the slip of paper in my hand. "Care to explain why you were at