“She’s finally gone… yeah, I know, about bloody time,” he said casually. The wife froze beneath the bed. Her heart began pounding so loudly that she was certain he could hear it. Her husband continued, completely unaware—or so she thought—that she was listening to every word. “I’m coming to see you. Put on that sexy French nightie. I love you. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll do all the naughty things you like.” The wife covered her mouth to keep herself from gasping. Tears filled her eyes as anger replaced every trace of uncertainty. For weeks, she had suspected something was wrong, but now she believed she finally had proof. He was not simply coming home late. He had another woman waiting for him.
She listened as he ended the call. There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of keys being picked up. His footsteps moved toward the bedroom door. She expected him to leave immediately, but he paused. Then she heard him walk back toward the dresser. The paper rustled. A few seconds later, his footsteps moved away again. The front door opened, closed, and then came the unmistakable sound of his car starting outside. The wife remained under the bed, trembling with rage. She waited until the car disappeared down the street before crawling out. Her knees were stiff, her face was wet with tears, and her hands shook as she grabbed the note. “So this is who he really is,” she whispered bitterly. She looked down at the words he had written, expecting a name, an explanation, or perhaps a cruel final message. Instead, she read a sentence so unexpected that she had to read it twice.
“I can see your feet. We’re outta bread. Be back in five minutes.”
For several seconds, she simply stared at the note. Her mouth fell open. Then she looked down at the floor and realized the mistake she had made. She had carefully hidden herself under the bed, but in her hurry, she had forgotten that her feet were sticking out from the other side. Her husband had known exactly where she was from the moment he entered the room. He had picked up her dramatic note, understood what she was trying to do, and decided to give her a little performance of his own. The mysterious phone call had not been to a secret lover. He had apparently been talking to himself—or perhaps pretending to speak to someone—just to make his suspicious wife squirm. And now he had left the house to buy bread.
When he returned five minutes later, he walked into the kitchen carrying two loaves of bread and found his wife sitting at the table, arms crossed and cheeks bright red. He placed the bread down without saying a word. She pointed accusingly at him. “You knew I was under the bed!” He nodded. “Your feet were sticking out.” She tried desperately to remain angry, but the absurdity of the situation finally broke her. She burst out laughing, and he started laughing too. “You really thought I was cheating?” he asked. “After that phone call?” she replied. “You deserve an award for that performance.” He grinned and handed her a loaf of bread. “Next time you want to know what I’m doing, just ask me. And next time you hide under the bed, hide your feet.” She shook her head, smiling despite herself. The argument they had been preparing to have never happened. Instead, they ate dinner together, laughing about the strangest misunderstanding either of them had ever created.
