Seeing each other anew
On that particular Thursday, Victor was let out of the office an hour earlier than usual. Normally he trudged home at seven, hearing the sizzle of something frying in the kitchen and catching the faint perfume of his wifes lavender scent. Today his boss had fallen ill, so the meeting was called off and Victor found himself standing at his front door at four oclock, feeling as outofplace as an actor who steps onto the stage after the curtains already up.
He slipped the key into the lock; the deadbolt gave a conspicuous click. In the hallway, on the coat rack, hung a sleek, cashmere blazer expensive, soft, and unmistakably not his. It was hanging where his own jacket usually did.
A restrained, velvety laugh drifted from the living room. The kind of low, buttery chuckle Victor had always claimed as his own private treasure. Then a male voice, muffled but undeniably confident and domestic, followed.
Victors feet seemed glued to the oak floorboards he and Felicity had picked out together, arguing over the exact shade of oak. He caught his own pallid reflection in the hall mirror, the creases of a ninetofive suit still clinging to him. He felt like a stranger in his own flat.
He stalked toward the sound, still wearing his shoes a cardinal rule broken in their home. Every step echoed in his temples. The lounge door was ajar.
Inside, Felicity was perched on the sofa in the turquoise bathrobe shed received for her birthday last year, legs tucked snugly beneath her, looking exactly as she always did at home. Beside her sat a man in his early forties, wearing pricey suede moccasins without socks (that detail, for some reason, made Victors stomach turn), a perfectly buttoned shirt with the collar flung open, and a glass of burgundy red wine in his hand.
On the coffee table rested the family heirloom crystal vase, now halffilled with shelled pistachios; the shells were scattered across the surface. The scene was the picture of cosy intimacy not a passionate flash, but a mundane, domestic betrayal, the sort that feels downright revolting.
Both Victor and Felicity turned at the same instant. Felicitys eyes flew open, a splash of wine arcing onto her lightcoloured robe, leaving a crimson stain. Her expression was less horror than panicked bewilderment, like a child caught redhanded.
The stranger placed his glass down with a lazy, almost indolent gesture, his face showing neither fear nor embarrassment, just a hint of irritation, as if someone had interrupted him at the best part of a story.
Vic Felicity began, her voice catching.
He didnt listen. His gaze flicked from the mans moccasins to his own dustcaked shoes, two pairs of footwear occupying the same space, two worlds that should never have met.
I suppose Ill be going, the stranger said, rising with a deliberately unhurried pace. He walked over to Victor, regarded him not with disdain but with the curious interest one might give a museum exhibit, gave a polite nod, and drifted toward the hallway.
Victor stood frozen, hearing the rustle of the blazer being slipped on and the lock clicking shut. The door closed.
The flat fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ticking clock. The air reeked of wine, expensive mens cologne, and betrayal.
Felicity wrapped her arms around her shoulders, muttering something that sounded like, You dont get it, Its not what you think, We were just talking. The words hit Victor through a pane of glass they had no weight.
He walked over to the coffee table, lifted the strangers glass, inhaled a foreign scent, then stared at the winestained patch on Felicitys robe, the pistachio shells, the halfemptied bottle.
He didnt yell. He didnt scream. He felt a single, allconsuming emotion: a physiological disgust for everything the house, the sofa, the robe, the perfume, and, absurdly, himself.
He set the glass back, turned, and headed for the hallway.
Where are you off to? Felicitys voice trembled, edged with fear.
Victor stopped at the mirror, looked at his reflected self the man who had just vanished from the room.
I cant stay here, he said quietly, with surprising clarity. Not until the smell of strangers perfume finally wafts out.
He left the flat, descended the stairs, and sat on the bench opposite his block. He fished his phone out, only to discover the battery was dead.
He stared at his apartment windows, at the cosy glow hed always loved, and waited for the phantom scent of foreign cologne, the rogue moccasins, and the life that had once been his to drift away. He didnt know what lay ahead, but he knew there was no turning back to the version of reality that existed before fouroclock.
So he sat on the cold bench, time slipping by in a strange, almost theatrical way. Each second burned with a searing clarity. He saw a fleeting shadow at his window Felicity, looking up at him. He turned away.
After a while half an hour? an hour? the blocks entrance door swung open. Felicity stepped out, no robe this time, just jeans, a hoodie, and a blanket clutched in her hands. She crossed the road slowly and sat beside him, leaving a halfperson gap between them, and handed him the blanket.
Take it, youll catch a chill.
No thanks, he replied without looking at her.
The blokes called Arthur, Felicity whispered, eyes fixed on the pavement. Weve known each other three months. He runs the coffee shop opposite my gym.
Victor listened, head still turned away. Names, occupations they were just setpieces for the real drama: his world had collapsed not with a bang, but with a quiet, domestic click.
Im not making excuses, Felicitys voice quavered. But youve been absent for a year. You came, ate, watched the news, fell asleep. You stopped seeing me. And he he saw.
Seen? Victor finally turned, his throat raw from silence. He saw me drinking wine from my own glasses? He saw me scattering pistachio shells on my table? Thats what he saw?
She pressed her lips together, tears welling but refusing to spill.
Im not asking for forgiveness, nor am I suggesting we sweep everything under the rug. I just didnt know how else to reach you. It seems only by turning into a monster did I become, again, the person you might notice.
Im sitting here, Victor began slowly, choosing his words, and Im disgusted. Disgusted by that foreign perfume in our home. Disgusted by his moccasins. But most of all, disgusted that you could do this to me.
He shrugged, his back aching from the cold and the stillness.
I wont go back there today, he said. I cant. I cant walk into a flat where every corner reminds me of this day breathe that air.
Where will you go? fear, raw and animal, crept into her voice.
To a hotel. I need somewhere to sleep.
She nodded.
Want me to stay with a friend? Leave you alone in the flat?
He shook his head.
That wont change what happened inside. The house needs to be aired out, Felicity. Maybe it even needs to be sold.
She gasped, as if struck. That house had been their shared dream, their fortress.
Victor rose from the bench, his movements sluggish, exhausted.
Tomorrow, he said, we wont talk. The day after tomorrow, the same. We both need silence, apart from each other. Then later well see if theres anything left worth saying.
He turned and walked down the street, not looking back. He didnt know where he was headed or whether hed ever return. He only knew one thing: the life that existed before that evening was over. And, for the first time in years, he was about to take a step into the great unknown not as a husband, not as a partner, but simply as a weary human who was hurting badly. And, oddly enough, that pain made him feel alive again.
The city felt foreign. Street lamps threw sharp shadows onto the pavement, easy to get lost in. Victor slipped into the first hostel he saw not to save a penny, but to disappear into an anonymous room that smelled of bleach and other peoples lives.
The room resembled a hospital ward: white walls, a narrow bed, a plastic chair. He perched on the edge, and silence hammered his ears. No creak of parquet, no hum of a fridge, no breath of his wife behind him. Just the roar in his head and a weight in his chest.
He plugged his dead phone into the charger the reception had kindly provided. The screen flickered to life with notifications: work chats, adverts, the usual. An ordinary evening for an ordinary bloke, as if nothing had happened. That bland normality was unbearable.
He typed a short text to his boss: Fell ill. Wont be in for a couple of days. No lies. He felt poisoned.
He stripped, hopped into the shower. The water was scalding, but he didnt notice the temperature. He stood with his head down, watching the stream wash away the days grime. When he lifted his eyes, his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink looked tired, rumpled, foreign. Was this the version of him Felicity had seen today? Had he been like this for months?
He slipped under the blankets, switched the light off. Darkness offered no peace. In his mind ran a slideshow of cursed images: the blazer on his rack, the wine stain on the robe, the sockless moccasins, and, worst of all, her words: You stopped seeing me.
He turned restlessly, searching for comfort that wasnt there. A thought crept in, first dismissed, then returning like an annoying mosquito: what if his own detachment, his own lazy soul, had nudged her into the arms of a man with slick shoes? Not to excuse her, not to absolve himself, but to understand.
Felicity didnt sleep. She roamed the flat like a ghost, arms folded behind her back, eventually stopping by the sofa. The wine stain on her robe had dried into a brown, ugly patch. She crumpled the robe and tossed it in the bin.
She walked to the table, picked up the glass Arthur had used, stared at it long enough to make it ache, then carried it to the kitchen sink and smashed it against the basin. The crystal shattered with a satisfying clang. It felt a little lighter.
She swept up every trace of the other man: threw out the pistachios, poured the leftover wine down the drain, wiped the table, collected the shards. Yet his cologne lingered, seeping into curtains, upholstery, everywhere. Shame clung to the air, as did a strange, twisted sense of release. Lies turned honest. Pain turned tangible.
She sank onto the floor, hugged her knees, and finally allowed herself to weep quietly, without sobbing. Tears ran of their own accord, salty and bitter. She wasnt crying so much for the hurt shed caused Victor as for the collapse of the illusion theyd both spent years building: the fairytale marriage. She knew she was at fault. He might not have noticed, he might not have been gentle, but the mistake was hers.
Morning found Victor cracked open. He ordered a coffee from the nearby café and perched by the window, watching the city wake up. His phone buzzed. Felicity.
Dont call, just text if youre okay.
He read the short, human message. No melodrama, no demands just concern, the kind hed perhaps stopped looking for.
He didnt reply. Hed promised to keep quiet. Yet, for the first time in a day, the anger and disgust inside him moved aside, making room for something vague and undefined. Not hope, no more like curiosity.
What if, behind all the nightmare and pain, they could learn to see each other again? Not as enemies, but as two exhausted, lonely people who once loved each other and perhaps got lost along the way?
He finished his coffee, set the cup down, and faced days of silence. After that, a conversation would come. And perhaps the real fear wasnt the talk itself, but the thought that nothing would ever change.
P.S. They no longer believed in fairytales. Their love was scarred, battleworn, but when everything fell apart they spotted, among the shards, not just hatred but a chance. A chance to piece themselves together not as who they were, but as who they might become. Because the strongest love isnt the one that never falls, but the one that finds the strength to rise from the ashes.
