April 21
I came home from the office earlier than usual. Normally Im back at seven, hearing the sizzle of something frying in the kitchen and the faint perfume of Evelyns perfume mingling with dinner. Today, however, my boss fell ill and let us out of the meeting at four. I stood at my flats front door feeling oddly out of place, like an actor who has missed his cue.
I turned the key; the lock clicked loudly. On the coat rack in the hallway hung a sleek, expensive wool blazer I didnt recognise, as if it had been waiting for me.
A restrained, velvety laugh floated from the living room the low, familiar laugh that has always been Evelyns. Then a male voice, indistinct but confident, sounded domestic.
I didnt move. My feet seemed glued to the oak floorboards we had chosen together, arguing over the shade of oak. In the hallway mirror I saw a pale face in a creased suit, a stranger in his own life. I was a guest in my own home.
I followed the sound, still in my shoes a breach of our house rules. Every step thudded in my head. The livingroom door was ajar.
There, on the sofa, sat Evelyn in the turquoise robe Id given her for her birthday, legs tucked beneath her. Beside her was a man in his forties, wearing pricey suede moccasins without socks the detail that made me cringe the most and a perfectly fitted shirt with the collar undone, a glass of red wine in his hand.
On the coffee table stood the crystal vase, a family heirloom, now filled with pistachios, their shells scattered across the surface. The scene was one of intimate domesticity, not passion, but a quiet, everyday betrayal.
Both of us saw him at the same instant. Evelyn flinched; wine splashed onto her light robe, leaving a crimson stain. Her eyes widened, not in horror but in panicked bewilderment, like a child caught in mischief.
The stranger placed his glass down with a lazy, almost lazy gesture. No fear or embarrassment crossed his face, only a flicker of annoyance, as if someone had interrupted him at an interesting moment.
Victor Evelyn began, her voice cracking.
He ignored her. His gaze shifted from the moccasins of the man whose shoes could have simply walked into the room, to his own dustcovered brogues. Two pairs of shoes, two worlds that should never have met.
I suppose Ill be going, the stranger said, rising with an inappropriately relaxed pace. He walked over to me, looked at me not with disdain but with curious interest, nodded, and headed toward the hallway.
I froze, hearing the blazer being slipped on, the lock clicking again. The door closed.
Evelyn and the stranger were left in a heavy silence, broken only by the ticking clock. The air smelled of wine, expensive male cologne and betrayal.
Evelyn wrapped her arms around herself, murmuring something like you dont understand, its not what you think, we were just talking. Her words hit me like they were filtered through thick glass meaningless.
I walked to the coffee table, lifted the strangers glass. It carried an unfamiliar scent. I stared at the winestain on Evelyns robe, the pistachio shells, the halfempty bottle.
I didnt scream. I felt a single, overwhelming revulsion toward the house, the sofa, the robe, the scent, and myself.
I set the glass back, turned, and walked back to the hallway.
Where are you going? Evelyns voice trembled with fear.
I stopped at the mirror, looked at my reflection the man who had just vanished.
I dont want to stay here, not until the air clears, I said quietly, very clearly.
I left the flat, descended the stairs, and sat on the bench outside my block. My phone buzzed; the battery was dead.
I stared at the windows of my flat, at the cozy glow I had once loved, waiting for the foreign perfume, the moccasins, the life that had once been mine to drift out. I knew there was no way back to the version of reality that existed before four oclock.
Time passed on that cold bench, each second burning with harsh clarity. I caught a glimpse of Evelyns shadow in my window; I turned away.
After a while half an hour? an hour? the blocks entrance opened. She emerged, no robe, just jeans and a sweater, a blanket clutched in her hands.
She crossed the road slowly and sat beside me, leaving a halfperson space between us. She handed me the blanket.
Take it, youll catch a chill, she offered.
No, thanks, I replied, not looking at her.
The mans name is Charlie, she said softly, staring at the pavement. Weve known each other three months. He runs the coffee shop opposite my gym.
I listened without turning. Names and occupations mattered little. They were merely scenery for the main act the fact that my world collapsed not with a bang but with a quiet click.
Im not making excuses, her voice shook. But you youve been absent for a year. You came home, ate, watched the news, fell asleep. You stopped seeing me. And he he saw.
Saw? I finally turned, my voice hoarse from silence. He saw you drinking my wine? He saw you scattering pistachio shells on my table? Thats what he saw?
She pressed her lips together, tears welling, but she held them back.
Im not asking for forgiveness, nor am I asking us to forget everything immediately. I just I didnt know how else to reach you. It seems only by turning into a monster did I become someone youd notice again.
Im sitting here, I began slowly, choosing words, and I am disgusted. Disgusted by the foreign perfume in our home, by his moccasins, but most of all disgusted by the thought that you could do this to me.
I shrugged; the cold seeped into my bones.
I wont go back there today, I said. I cant. I cant walk into a flat where everything reminds me of this day, breathe that air.
Where will you go? she asked, genuine, animal fear in her tone.
To a hotel. I need a place to sleep. She nodded.
Do you want me to stay with a friend? Leave you alone in the flat? she offered.
I shook my head.
That wont change what happened inside. The house needs to be aired out, Evelyn. Perhaps it should be sold.
She gasped, as if struck. That flat had been our shared dream, our fortress.
I rose from the bench, movements slow and weary.
Tomorrow, I said, we wont speak. The day after tomorrow as well. We both need silence, apart from each other. Then later well see if theres anything left to say.
I turned and walked down the street, not looking back. I didnt know where I was heading, nor if I would return. I only knew that the life before that evening was over, and for the first time in years I was stepping into the unknown, not as a husband, not as a partner, but simply as a man exhausted and in pain. In that pain, paradoxically, I felt alive again.
The city felt foreign. Street lamps cast sharp shadows on the pavement, easy to get lost in. I slipped into the first hostel I saw, not to save money but to disappear, to melt into a bland room scented with disinfectant and strangers lives.
The room resembled a hospital ward: white walls, a narrow bed, a plastic chair. I sat on the edge, the silence pounding my ears. No creak of floorboards, no hum of the fridge, no breath of Evelyn behind me. Only a ringing in my head and heaviness in my chest.
I plugged my dead phone into the charger the receptionist offered. The screen flickered to life with work chats and adverts the ordinary evening of an ordinary man, as if nothing had happened. That normalcy was unbearable.
I texted my boss a brief message: Ill. Wont be in for a couple of days. I didnt lie. I felt poisoned.
I showered; the water was almost boiling, yet I felt no temperature. I stood with my head down, watching the stream wash away the days dust. Then I looked into the cracked mirror above the sink and saw a tired, crumpled, foreign face. Was this how Evelyn saw me today? Was this who Id been all these months?
I lay down, turned the light off. Darkness offered no comfort. Images flickered in my mind like cursed slides: the blazer on the rack, the wine stain on the robe, the sockless moccasins, and the most bitter of all her words: You stopped seeing me.
I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort. A thought nagged at me, initially dismissed, then returning like an irritating insect: what if my own detachment, my emotional laziness, had driven her into the arms of the man with those moccasins? Not to excuse her, not to absolve her, but to understand.
Evelyn hadnt slept. She roamed the flat like a ghost, arms folded behind her back, stopped before the sofa. The dried wine stain had turned brown, an ugly mark. She crumpled the robe and tossed it in the bin.
She then went to the table, lifted the glass Charlie had been drinking from, stared at it, carried it to the kitchen and smashed it against the sink. The crystal shattered with a ringing sound. It felt a little lighter.
She cleared away every trace of the other man: tossed the pistachios, poured out the unfinished wine, wiped the table, swept up the shards. Yet his cologne lingered in the curtains, the upholstery, everywhere a scent of shame and a strange, twisted sense of release. Lies became truth, pain became tangible.
She sat on the floor in the living room, hugged her knees, and finally allowed herself to cry, quietly, without sobbing. Tears fell, salty and bitter. She wept not only for the hurt shed caused me, but for the collapse of the illusion wed painstakingly built over the years the illusion of a happy marriage. She knew she was at fault. He may not have been tender, but the error was hers.
Morning found me shattered. I ordered a coffee from the corner café and sat by the window, watching the city wake. My phone buzzed Evelyn.
Dont call, just text if youre okay.
The message was simple, human, devoid of hysteria or demands. It held care the care I had stopped noticing.
I didnt reply. I had promised silence. Yet for the first time in twentyfour hours, the anger and revulsion inside me gave way a little to something else: a vague curiosity, not hope, but interest.
What if, beyond this nightmare, beyond this pain, we could see each other anew? Not as enemies, but as two exhausted, lonely people who once loved and perhaps lost their way?
I finished my coffee, set the cup down. Days of quiet lay ahead, then conversation. Perhaps the fear isnt of the talk itself, but of the fact that I might not be able to change anything.
Lesson: silence can reveal more than words, and only by confronting the uncomfortable can we begin to rebuild ourselves.
