“The banality is stretching the limits of my credulity”

IT IS midnight and my husband and I are sitting at the kitchen table.

I’m trawling through the message inbox on my phone in a mild fit of pique; I need to find a number that my husband sent me weeks ago, which I should have saved to my contact list but haven’t. I rarely delete, so I know the number is there somewhere. I suggest he checks his sent items.

“No point,” he says, buttering toast. “I deleted everything the day before yesterday.”