Our chance encounter could have been the start of a simple romance: a single flight, two adjacent seats, one destination. Im Arthur Blake, a wildlife photographer whose life is a string of expeditions and gallery showings. Shes Poppy Howard, an architect who builds not only structures but her career with surgical precision.
Both of us are independent, selfassured, each with a divorce behind us that taught us to guard our own space.
The idea sparked like a flash in a dark room: why not keep this relationship light, free of commitments and domestic fuss?
Nobody thought it would last long, especially my studio mates. In the backroom they kept an unofficial tally: how long would the new catch of the elusive Arthur hold up?
Usually the count stretched into months.
Women were often taken with megood looks, a creative trade, not dull or stingy. But my colleagues also knew the other side of the genius photographer. I lived on whims of inspiration, was impossible at home, erratic in my moods, and liked a good tipple. When I announced Id found love, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. A lovestruck Arthur worked like a man possessed; my pictures throbbed with passion and life.
Then I finally met Poppy, my true muse. A woman who asked for nothing more than the pleasure of our meetings. Lets try it without the cursed chores, without the where have you been? and why didnt you call? I suggested. Lifes hard enough as it is.
Poppy smiled and agreed. First, she was sure it would be a short fling; second, after a painful divorce she had no desire to settle down. In short, our needs lined up.
I could spend a week living in her cosy flat, arranged to perfection, then disappear for months to my studio, piles of gear and negatives everywhere. We flew together to Bath, then didnt see each other for weeks. Wed spend three days in a Cotswold cottage and then part for three weeks.
A year on, Poppy became the star of our creative gatherings.
Dreams do come true, she said to friends over martinis. As a child I devoured books about Arctic explorersstrong, independent, forever on the move. My Arthur is like a polar explorer. He disappears on an expedition behind the lens and returns with flowers and bright eyes.
I was happy.
Poppy is a breath of fresh air, I told a mate over a glass of Scotch. My life is chaos. Sometimes I crawl home and cant even form a sentence. Other times I just need someone to listen and treat me like a kid. Most of the time I need to be left alone for a week. She gets that. If we lived together wed drive each other mad in a year. As it stands, I always show up with flowers and a grin, like a first date.
I allowed myself occasional side flings, but always came back to Poppy. It felt like a karmic tie, sturdier than a dull marriage. From the outside Poppy always looked perfectly content.
Five years slipped by. Then the gallery I worked closely with shut its doors, the magazine I contributed to fell into a slump, and the old creative collective slowly fell apart. We each went off to find new paths.
A couple of years later Poppy ran into Lena, an old acquaintance, in a coffee shop on Oxford Street. They chatted, reminisced, and, inevitably, the conversation turned to Arthur.
Poppy gave a bitter smile, staring into her cappuccino.
Yeah, were still on the same merrygoround. He darts in, vanishes, then pops up again. Honestly, Im tired of it. The moment anyone hints its time to settle, he looks at me like a cornered animal and asks, Are we not happy? He even gets jealous of his own shadow, terrified of losing me.
What about you? Lena asked.
Im ready to live together, want a child, but Im not alone, so Im not starting anything serious.
So you still love him? Lena pressed gently.
Maybe. Or its just habit, Poppy sighed. Or a stubborn hope that someday hell wake up, become the man I imagined, the one whos truly mine.
Poppy, forgive me, but people dont change that way.
My mother says the same. Everyone asks why I cling to a man who cant decide what he wants. I cant just dump him. Is this love?
Youd know best, Lena shrugged. I never bought into freespirit relationships. But a free soul is a free soul, as they say. Lifes short, and you cant get the years back.
A few more months passed.
Poppy finally mustered the courage to see a therapist. She talked about fear of loneliness, burntout relationships, and unfulfilled hopes. After a session she went home, brewed a cup of tea, and sat at the kitchen window. Her eyes fell on an old photo framea gift from me.
It held a picture of us laughing, arms around each other against a sunset. She lifted the frame to dust it and dropped it. The glass shattered, spilling a tiny envelope from the back.
Trembling, she tore it open.
Inside lay a photograph, not a staged shot but a candid one: her asleep, wrapped in a blanket, a lamp casting light over her architectural sketches. Id taken it while she wasnt looking. On the back, in my own hand, Id written, The only place the chaos inside me quiets. Sorry I never had the courage to say it aloud. Ive always been yours; I was just scared to admit it.
A week later, as usual, I knocked on her door with a bunch of pink peonies. Poppy opened, but instead of a smile she handed me the old photograph.
I looked at it, then at her, and for the first time the usual sparkle in my eyes was replaced by a tired, accumulated weariness from years of running.
It looks like, I said quietly, our expeditions are ending. Its time to come home.
And this time I crossed the threshold not as a guest, but as a man who finally decided to stay.
