Things started to fall into a rhythm that was both strange and comforting when I got married. We were still getting to know each other and learning about each other’s quirks, habits, and feelings as they happened. Some days were easy and some were hard, just as in any new marriage. But there was one unusual thing that kept happening in our new routine. It was small at first and easy to miss.
The first thing was a napkin.
I noticed a napkin that was a little crumpled and soft from use one night when I was getting ready for bed and emptying my pockets. There was a small red smear on it. Lipstick. I looked at it for a while and didn’t know what to think. I didn’t remember having used it. I absolutely didn’t borrow one. But it was late, so I figured it had somehow gotten mixed up with my coat during lunch or in a public bathroom. I tossed it aside and forgot about it.
Until it happened again.
And once more.
I started finding napkins with clear lipstick marks on them every week. Some were folded perfectly, while others were crumpled up in the corners of my pockets. Every time, the lipstick stains were a bright, deep red that I couldn’t ignore. At first, I told myself it was just a strange coincidence. But the pattern quickly became too common. The stain was always there since it was new. The same color all the time.
Then my wife found one.
I left my work jacket on the couch arm like I usually do. She was hastily looking through the pockets before putting them in the wash. I could hear her voice from the kitchen.
“What the hell is this?”
I turned back and saw her standing there holding the napkin like it was something poisonous. She wasn’t angry yet, but she was hurt. Her face was sharp. I don’t know what to do. I could tell from her eyes that she was already thinking up a tale about it.
“I don’t know,” I responded, stuttering. “I’ve found a few before.” I swear I don’t know where they came from.
After that, she didn’t say much. They just gave me the napkin and went away. That quiet was worse than all the hollering. To be honest, I didn’t have many answers for her. I felt completely stuck, not because I had done anything wrong, but because I couldn’t explain why something that was so blatantly wrong was happening.
Every time I reached into my pocket and found another damaged napkin, it felt like the air was being sucked out of the room. I would feel flushed, embarrassed, and bewildered. I even started keeping them, putting them in a drawer in my home office as if they may mean something someday. Or show something.
Things changed, but my wife didn’t bring it up again. Little things. How she would pause for a bit before answering me. The way she kept checking my phone every time it buzzed. It felt like we were both pretending not to feel the weight of what we weren’t saying as the air between us got heavier. I felt defensive for no reason because I was scared she didn’t trust me. And I guess she was too terrified to ask about what she thought she already knew.
Then, one Saturday morning, everything went wrong, or maybe it all finally came together.
I went to her vanity to grab a bandage since I had cut my finger while trying to open a jar that wouldn’t budge. I never really got what was in her beauty cabinet. It was usually a mess, with brushes, palettes, little jars, and tubes piled on top of each other. I opened the lid, but it was full to the top. I opened the drawer in the bottom on a whim. It stuck for a second, but then it opened all at once.
And there they were.
A strange kind of museum display with a lot of the same lipstick tubes lined together. They all have the same brilliant red color. I stopped moving. It took my brain a second to figure out what I was looking at. I grabbed one up and turned it over in my fingers. I looked at the label and was convinced I was seeing things.
Right then, she walked into the room.
She stopped in the doorway, saw me with the lipstick, and blinked.
After that, she began to laugh. Not just a little laugh, but a full-on laugh, the kind that comes from being completely shocked at how forgetful you are.
“Oh my God,” she murmured as she walked over. “You found my lipstick stash.”
I still couldn’t say anything.
“I used to test them before big meetings or events,” she remarked, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “I’d put the color on a napkin to see how it looked in different lights or if it bled.” I would usually be in a rush, so I would just toss the napkin into the nearest thing, like your pockets or your jacket. I actually did forget that I was doing it.
She glanced at me again and saw that I was both shocked and relieved.
“Did you think I was cheating?”
“I didn’t know what to think,” I said. “I thought I was going crazy.”
We sat down together, and the funny chat morphed into a serious one. She apologized for how she acted that day and for having bad thoughts. I replied I was sorry for letting my confusion keep me from asking for more details. We both knew we were holding back because we were terrified to deal with a problem we couldn’t name.
What almost tore us apart was a time when we were both weak. A few days later, we started to joke about it—the lipstick mystery that could have gone wrong but didn’t. It’s a joke now. She always shows me the latest lipstick she buys and asks, “Do you think I should keep this one in my pocket?” And I act like I’m patting myself down to make sure I’m not being used as a makeup bag again.
Marriage isn’t always about the major tests, as it turns out. Sometimes it’s about stopping the little things before they get too big. It’s about realizing that not every secret is a betrayal and not every silence is a sign of guilt. And other times, all you have to do is open the appropriate drawer at the right time.
