My good humour vanished the moment I parked the car and stepped into the block of flats. At home I was met with the usual predictability: slippers waiting by the door, the inviting smell of dinner, a tidy flat, a vase of fresh flowers.
Nothing moved me. My wife was at home, what else could a woman in her sixties possibly be doing all day? Baking cakes and knitting socksperhaps I exaggerated the sockknitting, but the point was clear.
Emily, as usual, met me at the door with a smile.
Had a hard day? Ive baked your favourite piescabbage and apples, just the way you like them
She fell silent under my heavy stare. She was in a soft, housecoat, hair tucked under a headscarfalways the same when she was in the kitchen.
Her habit of keeping her hair neatly pulled back was a relic of a lifetime spent as a chef. Her eyes were lightly rimmed, lips glossy. I found the habit vulgar, a gaudy attempt to colour her ageing self.
Perhaps I was too blunt, but I snapped:
Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesnt suit you.
Emilys lips twitched, she said nothing, and she didnt set the table for me. Better that way. The pies were hidden under a cloth, the tea brewedshed manage it herself.
After a shower and dinner, the kindness Id felt for her began to return, as did the memories of the day. In my favourite plush dressing gown, I settled into the armchair that seemed made for me and pretended to read. As the new junior lawyer had once said, Youre an attractive man, and quite intriguing.
I was fiftysix, heading the legal department of a large firm. Under my wing were a fresh graduate from the university and three women over forty. Another colleague had just gone on maternity leave, and her spot was filled by Olivia.
I was on a business trip that day, and it was my first time meeting Olivia in person.
I invited her into my office for an introduction. The moment she entered, the scent of a light perfume and a whiff of youthful freshness filled the room. Her oval face was framed by soft blonde curls, blue eyes looking confidently ahead. Full lips, a little beauty mark on her cheek. Could she really be only thirty? Id have given her twentyfive.
Divorced, mother of an eightyearold boy. I didnt understand why, but thought, Fine then!
Talking with the newcomer, I fumbled a little, telling her she now had an oldfashioned boss. Olivia fluttered her long lashes and replied with a remark that still rattles me.
My wife, who had retreated from the kitchen, appeared by the armchair with her nightly chamomile tea. I frowned. Always at the wrong time.
She sipped, not entirely reluctantly. Suddenly I wondered what a young, pretty woman like Olivia might be doing now. A pang of longforgotten jealousy stabbed my heart.
***
After work Olivia stopped at the supermarketfor cheese, a loaf, and some yoghurt for dinner. She returned home, neutralfaced, not smiling. Almost mechanically, she wrapped her son Oliver in a hug as he burst out of the flat.
I was tinkering on the balcony where my workshop was set up, while Emily handled the dinner. She dumped the groceries on the kitchen table, announced a throbbing headache and asked not to be disturbed. It was really just melancholy.
Olivia, having split from Olivers father years ago, still mourned her inability to become the proper matriarch for anyone.
Everyone who seemed suitable for a serious relationship was already solidly married and looking for something light.
Olivia, too, had tried to make things work. She even let me rent a flat for her (mainly for my convenience). But as soon as the smell of fried food drifted from the kitchen, I declared we needed not only a separation but also that she should quit her job.
She found a new place herself. Now Olivia lived again with her parents and son. Her mother pitied her, while her father insisted a child should grow up with his mother, not just grandparents.
Emily had long noticed my midlife crisis. Everything seemed in place, yet something crucial was missing. She feared becoming the most important thing for me, so she tried to smooth things over, cooking my favourites, always impeccably present, never prying into my thoughts, though she craved that connection herself.
She tried to draw me into the country house, but I grew bored, brooding.
Both of us yearned for change, and the affair between me and Olivia spiralled quickly. Within two weeks of her joining the firm, I invited her out for lunch and drove her home afterwards.
When she turned to me, her cheeks flushed.
I dont want this to end. Shall we go to my cottage? I rasped. Olivia nodded, and the car sped away.
On Fridays I left work an hour early, but at nine oclock my anxious wife sent a text: Well talk tomorrow.
I hadnt the faintest idea how spoton that message was. Emily knew it was impossible for the flame of a thirtyyear marriage to ignite again.
Yet losing her felt like losing a part of myself. Even if I grumbled, muttered and acted like a stereotypical old man, I remained in my favourite armchair, dining and breathing beside her.
Emily spent sleepless nights hunting for words that might stop the wreckage of our livesher own wreckage. In desperation she pulled out our wedding album, the one from when we were young and everything lay ahead. She was still beautiful.
Many had once wanted to call her theirs. He should remember that. Perhaps, if he saw those fragments of happiness, hed understand that not everything is disposable.
But he only returned on Sunday, and she realised everything was over. In front of her stood a different Maxadrenaline coursing through his veins, no trace of the shame or embarrassment hed once felt.
Unlike his wife, who feared change, he craved it and embraced it wholeheartedly, speaking in a tone that brooked no opposition.
From that moment Emily could consider herself free. She would file for divorce the next day, on her own. Olivers family would move in with her, as the law permitted. The twobed flat where they had lived technically belonged to meit had come to me by inheritance.
Moving into a threebed flat with her mother wouldnt worsen the young familys living conditions; there would still be someone to look after them. The car, of course, stayed with me. As for the cottage, I kept the right to use it.
Emily knew she looked pitiful and unattractive, but tears fell regardless, choking her words. She begged me to stop, to think of my health, at least my own that last plea sparked anger. He stepped close, whispered, and shouted:
Dont drag me into your old age!
It would be naïve to claim Olivia loved me and accepted my proposal on that first night at the cottage.
The allure of a married woman, and the thrill of a lover who turned his back on me, had drawn her in.
She was tired of living in a flat where her fathers stern gaze loomed. She wanted stability, which I could provide, she admitted.
Even in his sixties, he didnt look like a grandpatall, spry, the head of a department, sharp at work and pleasant in conversation. In bed he showed enthusiasm, not ego. He promised no rentfree flat, no poverty, no theft. The only doubt lingered around his age.
After a year Olivias disappointment grew. She still felt like a girl, craving excitement, regular outings, not onceayear events. Concerts, water parks, sunbathing in a daring bikini, coffee with friendsshe wanted it all. Youth and temperament let her mix it with family life; even her son didnt hinder an active lifestyle.
Max, meanwhile, was the seasoned lawyermanager, solving countless matters each day, but at home he appeared weary, needing peace and respect for his routines. Guests, theatre, even the beach were welcomed, but in moderation.
He never objected to intimacy, but it was usually followed by an early night, around nine.
His delicate stomach could no longer tolerate fried foods, sausages, or readymade mealsEmily had, of course, blamed him for it. He sometimes missed her steaming casseroles. Olivia cooked with Oliver in mind, never understanding how a pork cutlet could make his side hurt.
She never kept a list of his medication, assuming a grown man could manage it himself. Consequently, much of her life passed without his presence.
She took Oliver along on outings, joined friends, and strangely the mans age seemed to push her to live faster.
They eventually stopped working togethercompany policy deemed it unethicalso Olivia moved to a solicitors office. She sighed with relief that she no longer had to endure Maxs constant, fatherlike stare.
Respect was the feeling Olivia held for Max. Whether it was enough for happiness, she never knew.
His sixtieth birthday approached, and she wanted a grand celebration. Max, however, booked a table at a small, familiar pub hed frequented for years. He seemed bored, but thats natural at his age. Olivia didnt mind.
Colleagues who had once socialised with Emily found it awkward to be invited. Family lived far away, and he found little understanding in marrying a much younger woman.
He had no son left, having cut ties. Yet didnt a father have the right to decide his own life? He thought arrangement would look a bit different now.
The first year with Olivia felt like a honeymoon. He loved being out with her, encouraging her modest splurges, supporting her friends, and sharing her love of fitness.
He tolerated loud concerts and wild movies. On that wave he made Olivia and her son full owners of his flat, later gifting his share of the old family cottage to her.
Behind his back, Olivia threatened Emily with a lawsuit to claim her half of the big house, even hinting at selling it to developers.
She bought it with Maxs money, transferred the cottage into her name, claiming the river and woods were good for the child. The whole summer the cottage was occupied by Olivias parents and grandson. It suited Maxhe never really cared for his young wifes boisterous son. Hed married for love, not to raise anothers child.
Emilys former family felt wronged. With the cash, they sold their threebed flat and split up. Olivers family found a twobed flat, and Emily moved into a studio. Max didnt care how they lived.
And then the sixtieth birthday arrived. So many people sent heartfelt wishes for health, happiness, love. He felt no spark. Dissatisfaction settled in, familiar as an old coat.
He loved his young wife, but could never keep up with her. He couldnt dominate her, and she lived on her own terms, never allowing herself excessthough it irritated him.
He thought, If only I could fill her with the soul of my former wife! She could bring tea with chamomile, pull a blanket over me if I dozed off. Hed gladly stroll with her through the park, whispering over dinner, but Olivia couldnt endure his longwinded monologues. She seemed to tire in bed, and his nerves got in the way.
Max regretted rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into celebrations, not merely spouses.
Olivia, with her spirited nature, could still be a playful pony at ten, and at forty would still look considerably younger. It was a chasm that would only deepen. If luck were on his side, he might end his life in a heartbeat; if not
These unanniversary thoughts throbbed in his temples, quickening his pulse. He looked for Olivia among the dancersbeautiful, eyes glittering, happiness waking up beside her.
Seizing the moment, he left the restaurant, intending to clear his head. Colleaguesguests trailed him, so he dashed to a taxi waiting at the curb, urging the driver to hurry. Hed decide the route later.
He wanted a place where only he mattered, where he could walk in and be waited for, where time spent with him was valued and he could relax without seeming weak or, heaven forbid, old.
He called his son, almost begging for Olivias new address. The son, irritated, repeated that it was a matter of life and death.
Im having a birthday today, Max muttered. The son softened a touch, saying his mother could be aloneno man, just a friend.
Mother said they went to school together. The surname is funny Bulberson, I think.
Bulberson, Max corrected, feeling a sting of jealousy. Yes, hed once been smitten with her. Shed been popular, gorgeous, daring.
Shed been set to marry a Mr. Bulberson, but Max had turned her down. It was long ago, yet felt as fresh as yesterday, more real than his life with Olivia.
His son asked, What do you want, dad?
Max shivered at the forgotten phrase and realised how terribly he missed them all. He answered honestly, I dont know, lad.
The son dictated the new address. The driver, at Maxs request, stopped. Max stepped out, not wanting to face Emily in front of witnesses. He glanced at the clocknearly nine. She was an owl, a nightingale for him.
He rang the intercom.
But the voice that answered wasnt his former wifes; it was a coarse male voice. Mrs. Peterson is busy.
What about her? Is she alright? Max asked, concerned.
The man replied, Im the husband, by the way. And you must be Mr. Bulberson, Max snapped.
The man corrected him politely, insisting he was just a former husband, so he had no right to trouble Emily. He didnt bother to explain that a friend was taking a bath.
What, old love never rusts? Max asked with jealous sarcasm, gearing up for a prolonged argument. The man replied shortly:
No, it turns silver.
The door never opened for him.