It was another late arrival. It’d happened a few times over the past few weeks - she came home after nine, mildly sweaty, but always trying to make it look like she wasn’t, like it was just another work day. First the infirmary, then her centre, that’s all. She always tried to dry herself off and used perfume every time, but the only shower she could use was at home and it was always her hair that got the most soaked, anyway. She wondered whether he noticed and she also wondered whether he knew she was lying. She desperately tried to make it look like work, nothing exceptional, but she couldn’t be sure about what he thought. And, out of fear, she didn’t ask. The truth was, she was ashamed. She wasn’t sure why exactly she was ashamed, because she wasn’t doing anything shameful, quite the opposite. Maybe it was just the context of it all that made her keep all that a secret. The context of their lives. They had a lot in common, some parts of their lives growing up were ver...