Monica had just locked and alarmed her blue Honda Civic when her silver iPhone vibrated in her hand. The parking lot in the apartment building where she and her family lived was almost empty mainly due to those who left for work, and this included her husband, Marcus. The traffic on the road to her seven-year-old daughters’ school was quieter than usual, making her happy.

If I were into reading signs, she thought, I would take this as a sign that today would be a wonderful day!

Monica, wearing grey joggers and a matching sweater, looked at the screen and saw that she had just received a new email.

That can wait, she thought, exercise first, then electronics.

So, storing the phone in the specially designed area of the sweater and wrapping her long dark brown hair resting on her shoulders into a bun at the top of her head, she jugged out of the parking lot.

The sun was already up, and the popular but short trail opposite the apartment complex she called home was already accommodating other joggers. The tall, huge, green trees that filled the trail park have been Monica’s favourite place to run for the past seven years, and so she did what she went there to do, she ran.

When she reached the first leg of the trail and was bringing her breathing under control, her phone vibrated again, so she pulled it out and saw there was another new email.

I’m halfway finished, Monica thought, I might as well check them.

The two emails came with attachments, and they were from a Chris Mann. The titles of both emails were “Do you know where your husband is?”

“What’s this?” Monica asked quietly.

I am not going to open an attachment from a stranger with that title, she thought, I’m no fool, and yes, thank you very much, I do know where my husband is. She was about to delete the messages when one of them inadvertently opened, and a photo appeared in the body of the email. She didn’t need to click on the attachment to open it.

Monica, frowning, stared at the photo and after examining it, opened the next email. Both emails contained photos of her husband with today’s date and timestamped seven-thirty. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, grey tie and grey long pants he left home with not too long ago. He was sitting in Tim Hortons, drinking from a large red and white cup. Opposite him was a lady who looked a few years older than his thirty years, and she was laughing. The other photo was of them engaged in a side hug.

Monica forwarded the emails to her husband, with, “What are these,” and jogged in place, waiting for him to reply. Five minutes passed, and no reply from him came.

Later that night, after their twins were in bed and Monica and Marcus were sitting in the living room with the TV broadcasting the eight o’clock movie, she asked, “Did you get the emails I forwarded to you this morning?”

“Yeah, I got them,” he instantly replied, “What about them?”

Instantly, anger flared in Monica.

“Then why didn’t you reply with an email, a call, or something?”

“Why? Since when do I have to justify having coffee with a workmate to you?” Marcus, who was average height with short, straight, black hair, asked.

“I am not asking you to justify anything. Someone sent those emails to me,” Monica replied, her voice caught on her breath.

Why am I so weak? Monica silently exclaimed, trying to gain control of herself.

“Well, you can delete them, and if you must know, five of us arranged to eat there this morning, but the other three who were carpooling with each other had run late. So the two of us ended up eating together.”

Monica stared at him, anger boiling within her, with no venue for her to pour it out.

Oh God, help me! Monica silently pleaded.

“You have no right to speak to me like that,” she said, “Look, I am going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he said, moving his feet out of the way, “And stop following me or having one of your friends do it. I have never been unfaithful to you, and if anyone should be offended it should be me.”

The following morning, life went on as usual for Monica, Marcus, and their daughters. Monica archived the emails and forced herself to leave them alone.

He can believe whatever he wants, she told herself as she archived the emails.

About three months later, two more emails arrived with Marcus and the same woman at Tim Hortons, and this time, they were sitting next to each other, shoulders touching. When they parted ways, a front hug was exchanged. These emails were also entitled, Do you know where your husband is? Monica archived these messages, too.

Monica and her undiagnosed headache began walking together at least four times a week, and her exercises were finally kicking in because she had lost a few pounds.

Three months later, another set of emails arrived, and this time, they were entitled, “Don’t blame me, I tried to warn you.” Monica was tempted to delete them. No opening them, no archiving them, just simply deleting them. She pushed that thought aside and opened the mail. Date, time, Marcus, the woman, and Tim Hortons were there as usual. In one photo, Marcus’ hand was resting on the woman’s hand on the table, and their fingers were lightly laced together. The other photo was of him kissing her on the lips.

Monica forwarded these to Marcus, and she was storing her phone away to complete her running through the trail when the phone vibrated in her hand.

Marcus was calling her.

“Hello?” Monica answered.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, “I was going to kiss her on the cheek, just as she was turning her head. We are just friends.”

“Yep,” Monica said, “Workmates who enjoy having Tim Hortons together, and they became friends to the point that they kiss and accept kisses from each other. Got it.”

“Why are you being like this?” Marcus asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“What have I ever done to you to cause you to mistrust me? You have male friends, too, but you don’t see me following you or having someone following you whenever you go out.”

“Go out where?” Monica asked, a headache tapping her on the head.

Silence filled the line.

“Go where?” Monica asked again.

“I’ve never stopped you from going anywhere. It’s not my fault that you choose to fill your days with everything that has to do with our daughters.”

“Yep,” Monica said, struggling with tears, “I have no life, so I spend my days spying on my husband, no no, I have someone spying on my husband to catch him if he should ever cheat on me with a workmate who has now become his friend, got it”

“Honey…”

“And,” she continued, “The rest of the time, I try to fit myself into our children’s world instead of finding my own. Got it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus said, sighing heavily.

“Then how did you mean it?” Monica’s voice trembled.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said, “I never meant to hurt you, but somehow I always manage to do so. I’m so useless sometimes.”

“Hmm,” Monica said, not trusting herself to speak, as she wiped tears away from her face.

“Look, Honey, I have to go, but we will sort this out when I get home, okay? I love you.”

“Yep, love you too,” Monica replied, finding her voice.

“Bye,” Marcus said, “I’ll be home soon.”

“Goodbye, Marcus,” Monica replied before ending the call.

The End