His cheating [artichoke] heart

My husband, Mr. Wankershanks, and I frequent the local produce stand. It's a small place, only about 4 employees, you see. So they know our faces more or less, and we know theirs. Recently, I went produce shopping by myself. It really isn't a two-person job, and Mr. W was tired. So off I went.
 
As soon as I walked in the door, I could tell something was amiss. askew. catawampus, even. Instead of the friendly, heavily accented, "hello!" I usually receive, I was given a mere sideways glance and a friendly, if uncomfortable, nod.  Okay, okay, someone's having a rough day.  Perhaps that days eggplant shipment wasn't up to snuff. Who wouldn't be thrown off?
 
But it only got weirder.
 
"How is your boyfriend?" the owner asked me.
"Oh, uh, he's fine. He was a bit tired so he didn't want to come shopping today." I replied, thinking this to be a perfectly reasonable answer.
"aaaaaa..." he said, looking grim. "aaaaa haaaaaaaaa. I seeeeeeeeee."
 
Yeah. Okay Mr. Produce Man. The eggplant doesn't look that bad. Let it go.
 
But still, it got weirder.
 
When I finally reached the counter with my colorful array of bell peppers, tomatoes and citrus in tow, I was treated to a similar expression of concern by the cashier. What sort of strict produce-buying ettiquette could I have possibly sullied? Did I smell? More than usual? No, no I didn't. Then what could it be?
 
"Sooooooooooo" she began with a bang. "How is your, erm, brooooother?"

"Brother? I don't have a brother. You must mean my husband."
 
"Oh noooooooo!" she exclaimed with a look of pure horror. "He said he was your brother!"
 
"No, no. That's not possible. You must have mistaken him for someone else." I reassured her.
 
"Oh nooooooooo!" she repeated with a look that can only be descibed as tremendous pity overrun by morbid curiosity and a thirst. for. blood.
"He said he was your brother! He was in here with..." she dropped to a low, tantalizing whisper... "ANOTHER WOMAN!"
 
"Oh. Well. Um. I really don't think that's possible," I said. But it was too late. She was hot on the trail of that adulterous, produce-loving husband of mine.
 
"Oh dear. Oh dear. Now I've gotten him in... TROUBLE! Oh dear. I am sooooo sorry!"
 
Well, I appreciate the apologetic attempt to cover up the fact that you're a gossip hungry green pepper pusher. But really, I'll be okay.
 
So, I went home unsure what to do with this new knowledge. Clearly my loving husband, who would rather die than give up his video game time for another human being, was the worst 'player' in the world. Obviously, he had swept some poor woman off her feet by dazzling her with his knowledge of mangoes,  and taken her to the one place in orlando where he would be instantly recognized by the staff. But, then again, what saucy mistress could resist a hot date filled with animalistic papaya-lust?
 
Touche, produce lady. Touche.