A woman walks briskly into a small-town police station one rainy afternoon, her heels clicking sharply on the tiled floor. Her umbrella drips beside her as she approaches the front desk with purpose. An officer, slightly startled by her intensity, looks up from his paperwork.
“I think my husband is having an affair!” she declares, clearly exasperated.
The officer blinks, then straightens up in his chair. “Alright, ma’am,” he says cautiously, “How do you know that?”
She crosses her arms, clearly having rehearsed this. “Well,” she begins, “He keeps calling this woman ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart,’ and sometimes even ‘my love.’ It’s disgusting.”
The officer frowns thoughtfully. “Hmm. That could mean something. But to be fair, ma’am, that’s just how some people talk—especially on the phone. Terms of endearment and all.”
She lets out a short, sarcastic laugh. “Oh, no, officer. You don’t understand. He doesn’t even know her phone number!”
The officer looks up, confused. “Wait, he doesn’t know her number? How is he calling her, then?”
She leans in dramatically and lowers her voice as if revealing a national secret. “He calls her from the toilet.”
There’s a beat of silence. The officer raises an eyebrow. “From the toilet?”
She nods gravely. “Every single day. Sometimes twice a day. He disappears in there with his phone, and suddenly he’s whispering all sweet and mushy. Then, without fail, I hear him say, ‘Hold on a second, I’m going to get a roll of toilet paper!’”
The officer tries, and fails, to suppress a laugh. “Ma’am, that is… something. But it still doesn’t mean he’s talking to someone else.”
“Oh please,” she scoffs. “You think he’s just practicing Shakespeare in there?”
The officer chuckles, flipping open his notebook. “Alright, so let me get this straight. Your husband goes into the bathroom, takes his phone with him, uses terms of endearment, but you never hear the other person?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Just him. Talking. Laughing. Flirting. Sometimes he even sings!”
The officer’s expression turns amused. “What does he sing?”
“He sang ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ last night. He hasn’t even sung Happy Birthday to me in five years!”
At this point, the officer can’t help himself. He’s doubled over in laughter. “Ma’am, this sounds less like an affair and more like your husband’s in a committed relationship with his imagination.”
She narrows her eyes. “You think I’m overreacting?”
He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “No, no. I think you’ve got one of the most creative cases I’ve ever heard. But let me ask you something—have you ever checked his phone?”
She huffs. “Of course! And you know what I found?”
The officer leans in. “What?”
She holds up her phone and plays an audio clip. It’s her husband’s voice: “Hi sweetheart… yes, it’s me again… I’m back in the porcelain office… don’t judge me. You know I always feel closest to you in here.”
The officer slaps the desk, nearly knocking over his coffee. “He named the toilet?!”
She nods slowly. “He calls it his ‘safe space.’ And now, I want to file a complaint for emotional betrayal.”
The officer, still laughing, grabs a fresh report form. “Well ma’am, I don’t know if there’s a law against falling in love with your bathroom time, but I’ll do my best to investigate.”
She smiles triumphantly. “Thank you. And while you’re at it, maybe you could recommend a good plumber. I think the toilet’s starting to blush.”
