"That's Eric", he said, as he flipped through photo after photo taken via a long-lens in a flea-bitten motel room.

"I know this must be difficult," I said, "but in my experience, its better to know the truth sooner rather than later."

Stefan Pathetic ("It's 'Pathić', he corrected me. "Eastern European"), had hired me a couple of weeks ago when he began to suspect his wife, Loretta, was having an affair.

So I'd gotten to work, tailing her across town. She was gorgeous, with a body that men practically snapped their necks to get a second glance at, as she walked on by.

I can't say I didn't get my own crick in the neck, but I have a rule never to get involved with clients or the wives of clients, certainly not without payment upfront.

She went about her daily routine, shopping, fine dining, a little afternoon pick-me-up at the local wine bar. The way she glided through life, it was effortless, and I wondered what such a woman would be doing with a sucker like Pathić, here.

Sure, he had a decent income from some well-paid job creating complex tax models for financial institutions, which as far as I'm concerned, is just legalised theft. Hell, he may as well be on the street mugging old ladies for all he contributes to society.

Yet by this broad's standards, she was settling. She could have any man she wanted, so why this guy? Who knows? Maybe she liked having the upper hand over some poor schmuck who couldn't believe his luck. Maybe he had something on her. Maybe it was even love. Hell, stranger things have happened.

After a week, I'd started to think I was wasting my time. There had been absolutely nothing to suggest she was stepping out, or indeed, doing much of anything except killing time.

Then one afternoon, her schedule inexplicably changed, and I found myself following her out of the city, miles out. Out past the shopping districts, out past the slums, out until there was nothing but desert, still, we kept going.

Finally, we reached the motel, and I watched from the other side of the road, as she checked into a room.

A few minutes later, another car pulled in and without so much as a glance at reception, a man headed into the same room.

It was here I took the photographs that the man opposite me was now sobbing over.

"'nother cuppa coffee?" asked the waitress, seemingly oblivious to the gentle murmurs of the broken man, his head on the table.

"If you wouldn't mind", I said and downed the last of my coffee, ready for the next hit. This was a big coffee day, and that was just to get through this morning.

The photos were spread across the table, but I didn't need to see them to know what was on them.

A man and woman on a bed, hom hunched over her, her head thrown back with delight. Moaning, howling, in the grips of uncontrollable emotion.

Finally, he looked up and with glassy eyes and asked,

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"How could they do this to me?"

I wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to tell him that this was inevitable. There was no way this shrivelling wreck in front of me could ever satisfy a woman like that. It was only natural she should look for what he lacked someplace else.

"He", he said, referring to Eric Schultz, the man in the photos. "He was my b-- b--"

"Best man", I offered.

"B-- b--", he continued to stutter.

"Best friend".

"B--"

"Business partner. Brother. Bonified hombre. Bolero dance partner." All were true, I just didn't want him to say what he was trying to say.

"HE WAS MY BETA READER." He ejaculated, banging his fist on the table, causing everyone to turn and look.

Even in a seedy place like this, a well-dressed guy losing his mind is somewhat of a novelty. Usually, it's the bums and hobos who cause a scene.

He slunk back in his chair as if that last outburst had fully deflated him.

"I can't believe he would betray me like this."

There was no denying it. Photo after photo of Pathetic's wife and brother entwined on the broken mattress, their pleasure unmistakable as they read page after page of a three-pinned bound manuscript.

"They seem to be really enjoying it", I added, trying to soften the blow. "They laughed a lot."

"It's not a comedy", he said, the indignation re-inflating him a little. "It's an existential analysis of the inevitable suffering of the human condition."

Of course it was. Fucking writers.

"Well, maybe you could rebrand. After all, anything that brings joy into this shitberg world has gotta be worth something, right?"

He looked at me as if I'd lost the plot.

"I'm a _writer_", he said, anger building behind his eyes. "My job is not to _entertain_. It is to explore and expose the hellscape that is known as existence. I'm not some two-bit hack trying to make a bit of cash selling cheap entertainment to the masses. I'm trying to WAKE. THEM. UP!" He banged his fist three times to emphasise each word.

This time, no one looked around. Writers are always at their most ineffectual when they're trying to get people to listen to whatever sermon they're trying to deliver.

Most people just want some shit to do to pass the time until they die. They don't want to be faced with the bleak meaningless of their existence. There will be plenty of time for that after they're dead.

I picked up my coffee and wiped the underside with a napkin. Pathetic's outburst had sent coffee spilling out all over the edge of the cup. I couldn't afford to ruin another shirt today.

"Oh, what's the fucking point? Nothing matters anymore." He again slumped into his chair.

A full minute passed in silence as we both sat there.

"Anything else I can get you, sugar?" The waitress had returned.

"Just the bill, please", I said. "For both of us."

She smiled sympathetically and left.

"There's more", I said, pulling out a white envelope from my jacket pocket. "More photos," I tried to be delicate. "From after." He didn't show any signs that they could hear me. "They..."

"Were fucking", he whispered.

"I'm afraid so. I think it has been going on for a long time."

"I know. I've known for months." He stared at his hands in his lap. "I mean, how could she not be? Look at her, and look at me."

I bit my tongue so as not to agree out loud.

"She could have any man she wanted, yet for some reason she wanted me. But of course, I could never satisfy a woman like that. I'm not sure any single man could. But I at least thought we had -- our bond. Love and trust and mutual respect. Yet here she is, laughing over my novel. Seven years of my life, wasted."

"I thought you'd only been married two years."

"I mean my novel. She's tainted it forever. I can never look at it again, without thinking of _them_, together."

"Here you go, doll", the waitress put the bill on the table and left, as if this were a perfectly normal conversation.

"I know this is tough to hear, but maybe this is the fresh start you need. If it weren't ready after seven years, maybe it wasn't meant to be."

His shoulders twitched, which may or may not have been a shrug.

I stood, pulled a few bucks out of my pocket and dropped them on the table.

"Take it easy", I added and went to move to the door.

"Wait," he said. I turned but he hadn't moved at all. "Leave the photos."

I dropped the white envelope on the table and left him to wallow in his misery.