Things started to settle into a pattern that was both strange and comforting after I got married. We were still getting to know each other, learning about each other’s habits, quirks, and feelings as they came up. Like all new marriages, some days were easy and some were hard. But there was one odd thing that kept showing up in our new routine. At first, it was small and easy to miss.
The first thing was a napkin.
One night, while I was getting ready for bed and taking things out of my pockets, I spotted a napkin that was a little wrinkled and soft from use. There was a small red mark on it. Lipstick. I looked at it for a while, not knowing what to think. I didn’t remember using it. I know for sure that I hadn’t borrowed one. But it was late, so I figured it had somehow gotten mixed up with my coat at lunch or in a public bathroom. I threw it away and didn’t think about it again.
Until it happened again.
And again.
I kept finding napkins with visible lipstick stains on them every week. Some were folded perfectly, while others were crumpled up in the corners of my pockets. The lipstick marks were a bright, deep crimson that I couldn’t miss every time. The first few times, I told myself it was just a strange coincidence. But the trend got too common too quickly. You could always see the stain since it was new. Always the same color.
Then my wife found one.
I put my work jacket on the arm of the couch, like I usually do. She was swiftly going through the pockets before putting them in the wash. I heard her voice from the kitchen.
“What the hell is this?”
I looked back and saw her holding the napkin like it was something poisonous. She wasn’t angry yet, but her expression was sharp. I don’t know what to do. I could tell from her eyes that she was already making up a story about it.
“I don’t know,” I answered, stumbling over my words. “I’ve seen a few before.” I promise I don’t know where they came from.
She didn’t say much after that. They immediately handed me the napkin and departed. That silence was worse than any yelling. I didn’t give her many answers because, to be honest, I didn’t have any. I felt completely stuck, not because I had done something bad, but because I couldn’t explain something that was so obviously wrong.
Every time I reached into my pocket and found another ruined napkin, it felt like the room was losing its air. I would feel flushed, humiliated, and bewildered. I even started to keep them, putting them in a drawer in my home office, as if they may signify something someday. Or show something.
My wife didn’t bring it up again, but things were different. Little things. How she would halt for a second before answering me. How she kept checking my phone over and again when it buzzed. The air between us got thicker, and it felt like we were both pretending not to feel the weight of what we weren’t saying. I got defensive for no reason because I was scared she didn’t believe me. I also think she was afraid to ask about what she thought she already understood.
Then, on a Saturday morning, everything fell apart, or maybe it all finally came together.
I cut my finger while trying to open a jar that wouldn’t open, so I went to her vanity to grab a bandage. I never really got her beauty cabinet. There were always a lot of brushes, palettes, little jars, and tubes all around the place. I opened the lid, but it was already full. I opened the bottom drawer on a whim. It got 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 identical lipstick tubes in a row. All of them are the same brilliant red color. I paused. My brain needed a second to figure out what I was seeing. I picked one up, turned it over in my hand, looked at the label, and was convinced I was seeing things.
At that moment, she walked into the room.
She stopped in the doorway, saw me with the lipstick, and blinked.
After that, she started to laugh. Not just a little laugh, but a full-on laugh that comes from being completely shocked at how forgetful you are.
She walked over and said, “Oh my God.” “You found my lipstick stash.”
I still couldn’t speak.
“I used to test them before big meetings or events,” she remarked, wiping away a tear of laughter. “I’d put the color on a napkin to see how it looked in different lights or to see if it bled.” I would usually be in a rush, so I would just toss the napkin into the closest thing, like your jacket or your pockets. I actually did forget that I was doing it.
She looked at me again and saw that I was both relieved and horrified.
“You thought I was cheating, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know what to think,” I said. “I thought I was losing my mind.”
We all got down together, and the funny chat morphed into a serious one. She apologized for how she acted that day and for assuming the worst. I apologized for letting my confusion evolve into distance instead of seeking for additional information. We both knew we were holding back because we were afraid to deal with a problem we couldn’t name.
What almost broke us up was a time when we were both weak. We started making jokes about it a few days later—the lipstick mystery that could have gone wrong but didn’t. It’s funny now. She always puts the new lipstick she buys on and says, “Do you think this is worth keeping in my pocket?” And I pretend to pat myself down to make sure I’m not being used as a makeup bag again.
It turns out that marriage isn’t always about the big tests. Sometimes it’s about stopping little things before they get too big. It’s about realizing that not every secret is a betrayal and not every silence is guilt. And sometimes, all you have to do is open the right drawer at the right time.