Amy was eating breakfast at the table when he came in. She was sitting precisely where he had been hoping she wouldn’t be, in the only chair that allowed a clear view of the open fridge’s interior.

John took a clean coffee mug from the cupboard and poured himself a fresh cup. He leaned back against the counter, the fridge on one side and she on the other.

She was having toast with a glistening layer of melted butter, and eating it slowly. He needed to know.

The ‘butter thing’ drove him nuts. Both knew that, and both knew that the other knew that. He had solved the problem brilliantly and had just moments ago explained it to her. Still, he didn’t trust her. He didn’t want her to know that he didn’t trust her. If he looked while she was sitting there, she would certainly know that.

His mind raced. If he didn’t look, he’d fixate and fret about it all day. If he looked and she had used his butter, then she was untrustworthy. If he looked and she hadn’t, then he was untrusting. What was he to do?