April 12
I came home from work early today a rarity. Normally Im back at seven, the kitchen already humming with the sizzle of something frying, the air tinged with the faint perfume of my wifes aftershave. This afternoon, however, my boss fell ill and sent us off at four. I found myself standing at the front door of my own flat, feeling as awkward as an actor who arrives onstage a beat too late.
The key turned with a click that seemed too loud in the hallway. On the coat rack hung a strangers jacket, a pricey softwool overcoat that now occupied my spot.
A soft, low chuckle drifted from the living room the kind of velvety laugh I have always taken to be Ethels. Then a male voice, muffled but unmistakably confident, rose from the same room.
I didnt move. My feet felt glued to the oak parquet we had chosen together, arguing over the shade of oak. In the hallway mirror I saw my own pale face, the creases of office life pressed into my suit. I felt like an intruder in my own home.
I walked toward the sound, shoes still on a breach of the house rules and each step seemed to echo in my skull. The livingroom door was ajar.
On the sofa sat Ethel, wrapped in the turquoise bathrobe Id given her for her birthday, her legs tucked close in a domestic pose. Beside her was a man in his early forties, wearing expensive suede moccasins without socks (the sight of which lodged a particular irritation in me), a crisp shirt with the collar undone, and a glass of red wine in his hand.
On the coffee table stood the familiar crystal vase, a family heirloom, filled with pistachios, their shells scattered across the surface.
It was a tableau of intimate domesticity, not passion nor a sudden fling, but a mundane betrayal the most unsettling kind.
Both of us noticed me at once. Ethel flinched; the wine splashed onto her light robe, leaving a dark stain. Her eyes widened, not with horror but with a childlike panic, as if caught in the act of mischief.
The stranger set his glass down with a slow, almost lazy gesture. There was no fear or embarrassment on his face, just a hint of irritation, like a man whose favourite TV program has been interrupted.
Victor Ethel began, her voice cracking.
He didnt answer. His gaze dropped from the moccasins to my own dusty shoes, two pairs of footwear sharing a single space two worlds that should never intersect.
I think Ill be off, the stranger said, rising with a lethargy that seemed out of place. He approached me, looked not down upon me but with the curiosity one reserves for a museum exhibit, gave a slight nod, and moved toward the hallway.
I stood frozen, hearing the jacket being pulled on and the lock clicking shut. The door closed behind him.
Ethel and I were left in a thick silence punctuated only by the ticking clock. The room smelled of wine, expensive cologne, and betrayal.
Ethel clutched her shoulders, whispering something that barely reached me you dont understand, its not what you think, we were just talking. The words passed through a pane of thick glass, irrelevant.
I walked to the coffee table, lifted the strangers glass, and its foreign scent hit me. I stared at the wine stain on Ethels robe, the pistachio shells, the halfempty bottle.
I didnt shout. I felt a single, allconsuming revulsion toward the flat, the sofa, the robe, the scent, and toward myself.
I set the glass back, turned, and headed for the hallway.
Where are you going? Ethels voice trembled with fear.
I stopped at the hallway mirror, looked at my reflection the man who had just been absent.
I dont want to stay here, I said quietly, very clearly. Not until the air clears.
I left the flat, descended the stairwell, and sat on the bench opposite my buildings entrance. My phone buzzed; the battery was dead.
I stared at the windows of my flat, at the cosy glow I had loved, waiting for the lingering scent of foreign perfume, foreign moccasins, and what had once been my life to dissipate. I didnt know what lay ahead, but I knew there was no turning back to the version of reality that existed before four oclock.
The bench was cold, time seemed to move strangely. Each second burned with stark clarity. I saw a shadow flicker in my window Ethel, looking at me. I turned away.
After a while half an hour? an hour? the buildings front door opened. She emerged, no robe, just jeans and a sweater, a blanket in her hands. She crossed the road slowly, sat beside me on the bench, leaving just enough space between us for a halfpersons width. She offered the blanket.
Take it, youll be cold.
No, thank you, I replied, not looking at her.
Its Arthur, Ethel said softly, eyes fixed on the pavement. Weve known each other three months. He runs the café next to my gym.
I listened without turning my head. The name, the job none of it mattered. Those details were merely scenery for the main act: my world had collapsed not with a bang, but with a quiet, everyday click.
Im not making excuses, her voice quivered. But you youve been absent for a year. Youd come home, have dinner, watch the news, fall asleep. You stopped seeing me. And he he saw.
Saw? I finally turned to her, my voice hoarse from the silence. He saw you drinking wine from my glasses? He saw you scattering pistachio shells on my table? Thats what he saw?
She pressed her lips together, tears gathering, but she held them back.
Im not asking for forgiveness. Im not suggesting we forget everything instantly. I just didnt know how else to reach you. It seems only by becoming a monster did I become, again, a person you might notice.
Im sitting here, I began slowly, choosing my words, and Im disgusted. Disgusted by the foreign perfume in our home, by his moccasins, but most of all disgusted that you could treat me this way.
I shrugged; the cold and my immobility made my back ache.
I wont go back there today, I said. I cant. I cant step into a flat where everything 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.
Do you want me to stay with a friend? Leave you alone in the flat?
I shook my head.
That wont change what happened inside. The house needs to be aired out, Ethel. Perhaps it should be sold.
She gasped, as if struck. That house had been our shared dream, our fortress.
I stood from the bench, movements slow and weary.
Tomorrow, I said, we wont speak. The day after tomorrow, same. We both need silence, separately. 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 headed, or whether I would ever return. I only knew that the life that existed before that evening was over. For the first time in years, I was about to take a step into total unknown not as a husband, not as a partner, but simply as a man who was exhausted and in pain. And, paradoxically, that pain made me feel alive again.
The city felt foreign. Streetlights threw sharp shadows onto the pavement, easy to get lost in. I slipped into the first hostel I saw not to save money but to vanish, to dissolve in a featureless room that smelled of bleach and strangers lives.
The room resembled a hospital ward: white walls, a narrow bed, a plastic chair. I perched on the edge, and silence hammered my ears. No creak of floorboards, no hum of the fridge, no breath of my wife behind me. Only the ringing in my head and a weight in my chest.
I plugged my dead phone into the charger the receptionist offered. The screen flickered to life, notifications buzzing work chats, adverts. An ordinary evening for an ordinary bloke. The normalcy was unbearable.
I texted my boss a short message: Unwell. Wont be in for a couple of days. I didnt lie. I felt poisoned.
I stripped down, took a shower. The water was scalding, yet I didnt feel the heat. I stood with my head down, watching the water wash away the grime of the day. Then I looked up at the cracked mirror above the sink a tired, crumpled, unfamiliar face. Was that how Ethel saw me today? Was that who Id been for months?
I slipped under the blankets, turned the light off. Darkness offered no comfort. In my mind ran a slideshow of cursed images: the overcoat on the rack, the wine stain on the robe, the sockless moccasins, and, most bitterly, her words: You stopped seeing me.
I tossed and turned, searching for a comfortable position that never came. A thought kept crawling into my ear, one I first tried to brush aside, but it returned like an irritating fly: what if it was my own detachment, my mental laziness, that had pushed her into anothers arms? Not to excuse her, not to lay all blame on her, but to recognise my part.
Ethel didnt sleep. She prowled the flat like a ghost, arms crossed behind her back, pausing by the sofa. The wine stain on her robe had dried into a brown, ugly mark. She crumpled the robe and tossed it into the bin.
She then went to the table, lifted the glass that Arthur had been drinking from, stared at it, carried it to the kitchen and smashed it against the sink. The crystal shattered with a sharp clang. It felt a little lighter.
She cleared away every trace of the other pistachios, unfinished wine, shards of glass. Yet his cologne clung to the curtains, the upholstery, everywhere. The scent was as inescapable as shame, and strangely, a twisted sense of release. Lies turned to truth. Pain became tangible.
She sank onto the floor, hugged her knees, finally allowed herself to weep quietly, without sobs. Tears ran their own course, salty and bitter. She wasnt crying just for the hurt shed caused me, but for the collapse of the illusion wed painstakingly built over years the illusion of a happy marriage. She knew shed been at fault. He might not have paid attention, might not have been tender, but the mistake 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. It was a message from Ethel.
Dont call, just text if youre okay.
It was simple, human, devoid of drama or demands. Care, the kind I had perhaps stopped noticing.
I didnt reply. Id promised to keep quiet. Yet, for the first time since that day, the anger and revulsion inside me shifted, making room for something else a vague, unsteady curiosity, not hope.
What if, after all this nightmare and 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 silence lay ahead, then conversation. Perhaps the fear isnt of the talk itself, but of the fact that nothing will change.
P.S. They no longer believe in fairytale endings. Their love isnt perfect; its wounded and battered. Yet when everything collapsed, they saw in the shards not only hatred but a chance a chance to rebuild themselves, not as they were, but as 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.
