“Emma! We need to talk, and I mean properly…”
Her husband burst through the door, still in his coat and shoes, words tumbling out before he could catch his breath. “Emma! We need to talk” His eyes, already wide, stretched impossibly further, voice rushing on without pause. “Ive fallen in love!”
*Well then*, Emma thought, *looks like the midlife crisis has finally come knocking. Hello there, old friend.* But she said nothing, only stared at himreally staredfor the first time in years. Five? Six? Maybe eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Right then, Emmas marriage flickered past like an old film reel. Theyd met the way most people did these daysonline. Shed shaved two years off her age; hed added an inch to his height. A little white lie, just enough to squeeze into each others search criteria. And somehow, against the odds, theyd found each other.
She couldnt remember whod messaged first, but she knew his opening line had been free of sleaze, tinged with self-deprecation. At thirty-three, with looks best described as “pleasant,” Emma knew her stock on the dating market wasnt soaring. If she wasnt in the back row, she was certainly second-to-last. So for their first date, shed bitten her tongue, plastered on a smile, worn lace lingerie beneath a demure dress, and tucked homemade shortbread and a dog-eared copy of Austen into her handbag.
To her surprise, the evening had flowed effortlessly (the power of the right outfit!). Their whirlwind romance fizzed with chemistry, and after six months of steady datesplus relentless nudging from parents whod long given up on grandchildrenhe proposed. They raced through introductions, agreed on a small wedding, and booked the earliest available date before anyone could change their mind.
Life, Emma had always thought, was good. Their home was a temperate zoneno scorching rows, just warm, steady affection. Wasnt that happiness?
Her husband, ever the straightforward bloke, had shed his “sensitive, romantic, handyman teetotaller” persona within weeks of marriage, revealing himself as he truly was: a hardworking, dependable chap in trackies who remembered to take the bins out. Emma, more complex by nature, had loosened her own corsetthe “sultry, intellectual domestic goddess” actbit by bit. Pregnancy sped things along, and within a year, shed happily traded the facade for a cosy dressing gown.
The fact neither had bolted when the masks came off, nor even complained, convinced Emma shed made the right choice. Their little social unit was solid.
Two kids, born in quick succession, rocked the boatsometimes violentlybut they never capsized. After every storm, theyd steady themselves and drift on, calm waters returning. Grandparents doted, careers inched forward, holidays were taken, hobbies indulged. By all accounts, they were perfectly, boringly average.
Twelve years married, and not once had he strayednot even a hint of flirtation. Emma wasnt the jealous type; he couldve gotten away with it. The idea of him flirting now made her smirk. Because her husband, after a few early, clumsy attempts at compliments, had given up words entirely. Instead, he communicated admiration through his eyeswide, unblinking, like an owls. Over time, Emma had learned to read them: wild adoration, quiet approval, bafflement, outrage.
Now she pictured him, eyeballs bulging, silently wooing somewait. *A rat?* Her throat went dry.
“N-now then,” she croaked. “Whats thisthis *rat* called?”
His eyes nearly popped from his skull. Hands flapping, he stammered, “Howhow did you? Bloody hell, Emma! Youre *uncanny*! I mean, I saw her andjust *look* at her! Soft as anything, gorgeous, andyoull laughshes the spitting image of you!”
From inside his jacket, he produced a tiny grey rat, pink ears twitching, beady eyes shining like polished ebony.
