First friday night in november
My wife went clubbing with some friends from work
I showed her to the door and kissed her lips

The bags are packed, the kids are sleeping
I wrote a letter to explain myself or at least to wash my hands clean
I don‘t want to make a scene in front of them

There is something in her voice
An undefinable undertone of love
There is something in her voice
And suddenly it‘s doubtful that I‘m right

It‘s five to ten and I‘m still waiting
You‘ll be late and you don‘t answer my call
I sit and watch fond couples catch their trains

The station clock proceeds relentlessly
Then all at once I see your face appear - on the display of my smartphone
with a trembling hand I hold it to my ear

There is something in your voice
An undefinable undertone of doubt
There is something in your voice
And suddenly I know that I am wrong

If I didn‘t write this letter?
Could I come home and try it better?
Like the first time that I met her?
If I didn‘t write this letter...