“Emma, we need to talk seriously.”
My husband burst through the front door without even taking off his shoes or coat, blurting it out before hed crossed the threshold. “Emma! We need to talk” Then, in one breath, his already huge eyes widening even further without so much as a pause, he added: “Ive fallen in love!”
*Well, well*, Emma thought. *So midlife crisis has finally come knocking at our door. Hello there* But she said nothing, studying her husband carefullysomething she hadnt done in years. Five? Six? Maybe even eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes when youre about to die. Right then, Emmas entire marriage flickered through her mind. Theyd met the most predictable wayonline. Emma had shaved off three years from her age, her future husband had tacked on a couple of inches to his height, and somehow, against the odds, theyd managed to squeeze into each others search criteria and found one another.
She couldnt remember whod messaged first, but she knew his opening line hadnt been crudejust lightly self-deprecating, which she liked. At thirty-three and with average looks, she was realistic about her prospects. She wasnt at the very back of the queue, but close enough. So for their first date, shed resolved to bite her tongue, listen intently, wear rose-tinted glasses and lace lingerie, and tuck a homemade biscuit and a dog-eared copy of Dickens into her handbag.
Surprisingly, the first meeting went smoothly (*the right outfit works wonders*), and their romance took off like a rocket. They enjoyed each others company so much that, after six months of steady datingand relentless pressure from parents whod given up hope of ever seeing grandchildrenhe finally proposed. They rushed through family introductions, agreed on a small wedding, and, terrified someone might change their mind, booked the earliest available date.
Life, as far as Emma was concerned, was good. Their marriage was warmno scorching African passions, just steady, affectionate respect. Wasnt that happiness?
Her husband, being a straightforward bloke, ditched his “empathetic, sensitive, golden-handed teetotaller” act a few weeks in and settled into who he really wasa hardworking, dependable man in comfy joggers. Emma, far more complex, shed her “domestic goddess meets sultry intellectual” persona bit by bit, though pregnancy sped things up. Within a year, shed happily abandoned the act altogether, swapping it for a cosy dressing gown.
The fact that neither ran for the hillsor even complainedafter dropping the pretence convinced Emma shed made the right choice. Two kids later, their boat rocked hard at times, but it never capsized. Once the storms passed, they drifted calmly onward.
Grandparents helped where they could. At work, they climbed the ladder slowly but steadily. They travelled, pursued hobbies, made time for each otherall while staying perfectly, boringly average.
Twelve years married, and her husband had never once strayed or even flirtednot that Emma was the jealous type. He couldve gotten away with it. The thought of him flirting made her smirk. It was absurd. Early on, after a few clumsy compliments, hed given up on words entirely and just stared. Like a wide-eyed lemur.
Over the years, Emma learned to read his emotions by the roundness of his eyeswild admiration, mild approval, startled confusion, outright indignation. Now she pictured him making silent, bug-eyed advances at some rat.
Her throat went dry. With a strained smile, she croaked, “So whats her name, this rat of yours?”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Fumbling at his coat, he stammered, “Howhow did you? Bloody hell, Emma! I couldnt walk past her, shes perfectsoft, gorgeous, just like you”
From inside his jacket, he produced a tiny grey kitten with pink-tinged ears, a rose-coloured nose, and beady black eyes.
