England

You're the perfect couple. He's an engineer, wakes up at 5:30, comes home late. Every morning, a note that says, "You're my galaxy."

On Friday, my friends invite me out: "You're turning into a ghost housewife!" An empty apartment and a cold dinner decide: "One drink. I'll stop by for an hour."

At the bar, "one drink" turns into several. You're fuzzy-headed and log on to social media to message your husband.

And then—BAM. A photo from a colleague: your husband, tired, hugging a blonde. Your brain, tipsy: "Cheating!" You only see the hug.

You dial his number.

"Hello?" his hoarse voice. "Honey? I have a meeting right now..."

You explode: "A meeting?! With whom, that blonde?! I saw everything! You're cheating on me with the accountant!"

Deathly silence. Exhale. He steps away, closes the door, and calmly, with a steely voice, says:

"Your name, stop being hysterical. I'll send you my geolocation now. I'm in a concrete bunker in the northern industrial zone; it smells of diesel fuel and cement. I work from six in the morning until late; I don't even have time to finish your soup."

• When would I have time to cheat? I sleep for four hours. And please look at the photo carefully: her face is twisted because I'm holding her so she doesn't collapse on the floor. She's dead drunk. And most importantly... Why would I need anyone else, she's so beautiful.