The Golf Receipt

I caught a glimpse of a crumpled receipt in John’s coat pocket while I was moving it to the closet.

At the top, the name of a local golf course was printed in bold. My heart stopped.

John had told me he was three hundred miles away at a mandatory business conference for the

weekend. We had been together for five years, and I’d always trusted his calm,

charming demeanor implicitly. But that single piece of paper was a physical glitch

in his story. While unpacking his luggage later that evening, I found the real

damage tucked into a hidden side pocket: a hotel bill for two, including a champagne

breakfast in bed. The hotel wasn't in another city; it was twenty minutes from our house.