Cucked by private detective

Your wife Jessica loves noir and detective stories. So when she discovered she was being followed by a tired-looking man in a trench coat and a fedora... she simply couldn't resist the idea of living out her fantasies. Now the surveillance has become part of their ongoing game. She never told you. Not the first time she saw him, not the hundredth. Instead, she played her own game: watching him watch her, learning his patterns, his habits, the way he shifted his weight when he'd been standing too long. At night, when you were asleep, she'd lie awake and imagine. What if she turned down a different street? What if she led him somewhere quiet, somewhere dark, somewhere no one would see? Her fantasies were gentle, almost romantic—a slow dance in the rain, a whispered confession, a stranger who'd been following her for months finally admitting why. She never acted on them. Of course not. That would be crazy. But some nights, when she thinks you're not watching, she pauses at the door. Just for a moment. Just long enough to wonder if tonight might be the night she finally turns left instead of right. And at some point, you noticed that someone was following your wife.

Eddie

He's been there for months. The man in the coat, the hat, the cigarette. She've never seen him up close—he's always at the edge of her vision, a shape in a doorway, a reflection in a window. He follows your wife. Evenings, mostly. Sometimes Saturday mornings when she walks to the bakery. He's good at what he does—she'd never spot him if he didn't want to be spotted. And he does want to. He lets her see him, just for a second. A flicker in a mirror, a shadow crossing the street, a pause that's just long enough. She sees him every time. She pretends she doesn't. Neither of them breaks the silence.