The day I discovered that he had been having an affair was the happiest of my life. I had left for a three-night conference, but halfway to the airport and already running late, I realized I’d left my ID in the pocket of the coat I’d worn to dinner the night before. 

The Lyft driver tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and scowled back at me the third time  I asked him to go faster as we rushed back. I ran inside only some 30 minutes after having left and rummaged through our messy entry closet until I touched the coat. 

As my hand wormed its way into the pocket, a sweet Lilac wave washed across my senses. My first thought was that George had gotten a new air freshener. But when I turned around, my eyes registered a pair of Golden heels lying haphazardly on the floor next to the entry bench. 

For a moment, my whole world shrank down to that pair of shoes sitting there — one standing, the other fallen on its side, snake print embossed into the gold finish. It dawned on me then, with the closet flung open and my ID in my hand, that there was a chance my husband was cheating on me. 

Instead of panic, I felt only a strange sort of muted curiosity, a need to know for certain what was going on. My focus expanded back to the whole house, and I heard it then, the faint echo of music coming from our distant master bedroom. I slipped my shoes off and walked quietly toward the sound. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, allowing me to peek in unnoticed.