“Falling for a Cosy Woman” or “So What If They Talk”
“Are you really leaving me for that bumpkin?” my wife asked, baffled.
“Dont call her that, pleaseGillian is a good woman. Its decided, Irene. Im sorry,” I said, hastily packing my things.
“I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. What will your colleagues think? The neighbours? A man like yourunning off with some plain, unpolished woman? What do we tell the children? That their refined father left them for a farmers daughter?” Irene nervously twisted a handkerchief in her hands.
“The children? Thank heavens, theyre grown. Sophies nearly old enough to marry, and Olivers gone his own reckless way. They dont listen to us anymore. As for the neighbours, colleagues, strangers on the street I couldnt care less what they think. Its my life. I dont peer into their bedrooms or hold a candle to their affairs.” I tried to soften the blow, to make her see reason.
It didnt work. When a marriage crumbles, both suffer. Irene sat at the kitchen window, staring blankly outside. I felt no pity for her. Not an ounce. My soul was hollow.
Irene was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart fluttered, my spirit opening to unknown happiness. Beautiful, polished, self-assured. I wasnt bad myselfhandsome enough to turn heads. Back then, I had my pick of women. Youthful passion led me to marriage, only to flee once the dullness of routine set in. The childrenSophie and Oliveronly came with Irene.
I thought shed be my last refuge, my anchor. Alas Neither a melon nor a wife reveals itself at first glance. Over the years, love turned from juicy and sweet to a shrivelled fruit. In public, we played the perfect coupleadmired (or perhaps despised?) by the neighbours. The old ladies by the front gate whispered as we passed, but we strode past proudly, as if on a red carpet.
Behind closed doors, everything changed.
First, Irene was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled high, dust gathered in corners. Yet her nails were manicured, her hair sleek, her makeup fresh. She believed the world revolved around her, not the other way around. My wife merely allowed herself to be loved, convinced she was a star of immeasurable brilliance. The doors to her heart were lockedeven to me, even to the children.
My mother lived with us. She endured the chaos in silence, then took matters into her own wise hands. Gently, she taught Sophie and Oliver to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Irene, fancying herself high society (why?), called them by their full namesnever a term of endearment. The children drifted from her, clinging instead to their kind, fair grandmother.
Irene forbade me from chatting with neighbours, dismissing such talk as “pointless drivel.” She herself offered little more than a stiff “hello.”
In our early years, I noticed none of this. I was simply in love, living each day with joy. Sophie was a straight-A student; Oliver scraped by with Ds. Strangesame house, same upbringing, yet polar opposites. No matter how we tried, Oliver refused to improve. By Year 10, he resented Sophie for her diligence, and I often broke up their fights.
This was the 90s.
After school, Oliver vanished into some gang. Three years passed without a word. We searched, mourned, presumed him lost. My mother, eyeing Irene, muttered, “A lad falls from his horse when his mother sits him crooked.” Irene would storm off, locking herself in the bathroom to weep.
Then, one day, Oliver returneda wreck. Gaunt, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as battered, her eyes empty. We took them in warily, fearing his hardened temper. He watched us sidelong, jumpy, silent.
Sophie soon left, moving in with some brute. No wedding, no children. Shed visit covered in bruises, insisting, “Its nothingI slipped.” The bright girl we knew was gone.
And then, foolish at my age, I fell in love again. Never saw it coming. After shifts at the factory, I dreaded going homeOlivers rage, Irenes coldness, Mothers jabs about my failed marriages.
Gillian, the canteen cook, was always laughingwarm, cheerful, kind. For years, I barely noticed her, until one day I did. Her laugh was like a brook in springtime. She joked, smiled, brightened every room. The opposite of Irene: hair in a messy bun, nails short, no makeup but carrot-red lipstick. Yet she radiated warmth.
Being with her was easy. Her flat smelled of fresh pies; her fridge always held stew, pies, porridge. She fed neighbours, friendseveryone. How could I not love such a woman?
I courted her properlyflowers, films, cafés. At first, she resisted: “Youve a wife, Colin. What will your children think?” I wavered, fearing the ice beneath my feet.
Some nights, I stayed with her. Irene guessed, thanks to “well-wishers” who painted our affair in lurid detail. She raged, called Gillian names, threatened suicide.
Six months later, I left. Gillian was overjoyed but firm: “Show me divorce papers in a month, or I wont have you.” I did. We married. No regrets.
Now Sophie and Oliver visit. Gillian feeds them well. Sophies left her brute; Olivers healing, soon to be a father. Gillian reconciled them: “Youre familystick together, help each other.”
Mother passed. Irene aged, her pride gone. She avoids me. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you willbut its my life to live, my choices to own.
*Sometimes, the heart knows what the mind resistsand in the end, warmth outshines polish.*
