My job requires me to go away on conferences every once in a while, which often means a few nights in a hotel in another city. They’re generally tedious affairs, but the job pays well so I don’t complain.
A few years ago I was living with my girlfriend in an apartment. We were happy. My occasional time away wasn’t an issue and she appreciated my good salary.
But I began to wonder what she got up to when I was gone.
Sometimes I’d ring from my hotel room and I’d struggle to get hold of her. Or when I got home, I’d ask her what she’d been doing and she’d be unusually vague. She never volunteered any stories about what had happened in my absence, except the most trivial, mundane things.
I probably had no good reason to worry, I said to myself.
But truth be told, I’ve always been a bit on the anxious and paranoid side. It started to play on my mind.
It sounds ridiculous to write this, but I began to notice that she always had fresh sheets on the bed when I got back. Normally we’d wash them about once a week, but they were fresh every time on the first night back.