Two days early. That was the plan. Return home from her European jaunt and catch him in the act. She knew he was guilty of something; she just didn’t know what.
Outside their apartment she froze, ear pressed against the door. She heard heavy breathing, grunting. Finally, the proof she was desperately after.
The door flung open. She stepped into the room. She found her husband on his hands and knees furiously scrubbing their living room carpet.
“It’s just an espresso martini,” he said.
She didn’t believe him for a second.
So… whose drink was it and where was she?
The Weekday One Hundred 