Leonard paced the cramped kitchen like a caged lion, rubbing his palms, adjusting dishes, shifting the sugar bowl—seeking solace in the mundane he so despised. A monologue churned in his mind. He had to speak. He had to end it. Enough. He couldn’t go on.
Margaret would cry, of course. She’d beg him to stay, insist she was exhausted but trying, promise they could still fix things. But he knew the truth: it was over. They were nothing now—just two strangers bound by a mortgage and a fridge. No love, no respect, not even irritation. Just emptiness.
The key turned in the lock. He braced himself, as if poised to leap off a cliff.
Margaret stumbled in, collapsing onto the hallway bench. First thing—she kicked off her shoes. Those damned new heels. Her day as a shop assistant in the department store had been hell: fetching, carrying, fitting, helping. Spring had stirred people’s hunger for change—some sought love, others a new dress.
“Hello. Rough day?” Leonard ventured carefully.
“Like a dog’s. Didn’t sit down once,” she exhaled, not looking up.
“Right. Dinner soon?”
She nodded and trudged to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, the stove hissed, pans sizzled, and the room filled with smells Leonard still tried to convince himself held meaning.
He lingered in the doorway, gathering courage. A deep breath.
“Margaret…” he began, “we need to talk.”
His wife turned, still peeling carrots. No surprise, no dread.
“Let’s end this,” he blurted. “I can’t do it anymore. We’re strangers. You’ve crushed my spirit. I’m an artist, and you—you’re just routine. You demand money, clip my wings. I won’t live like this.”
It was improvised, but he thought it sounded dramatic. Almost like an audition piece.
Margaret kept scraping the carrot, then abruptly flung it into the sink, untied her apron, killed the stove, and faced him.
“Fine,” she said flatly. “To hell with this life.”
He gaped. This wasn’t the script. Where were the tears? The scene?
As he reeled, she poured coffee, fetched cheese and biscuits, and sat.
“Meg… you’re in shock. But you felt it too, didn’t you? You cook without soul. It’s all mechanical—”
“Aye. No soul,” she echoed, sipping her coffee.
The conversation crumbled. He fumbled for lines.
“We’ll need to sort the flat,” he muttered. “And the rest.”
“Thought you were so suffocated you’d bolt without a backward glance. But here you are—worried about the mortgage,” she sneered. “Fine. Keep the flat. Pay me half what’s been paid. I’ll move in with Dad. He’s been asking—getting on in years.”
“You’re so cold,” Leonard sighed. He’d imagined it simpler—his dreams of acting, the auditions while working as a security guard. Every penny he earned went to her, no questions. Now—money, paperwork, percentages.
He’d wanted freedom. Instead, he got an invoice.
“Take it all. Pay me when you can. I’m not a monster,” he declared, as if gifting her a manor, not a flat.
“Ta. By the way—you seeing someone?” she asked, barely interested.
“That’s irrelevant,” he muttered. Let her think he was in demand.
He left feeling victorious. Freedom. A bohemian life, no frying pans, no nagging.
Six months later.
Leonard hesitated at the familiar door. Everything had changed. Living with his mother was a nightmare. She scolded him for the divorce, mocked his failed career, threw fits when he brought women home. Even a waitress had fled, unable to bear her barbs.
His mother was worse than Margaret. Far worse.
The final blow—she’d kicked him out. He suspected she’d found someone new. They’d rowed. She’d called him a loser, told him to get a proper job, not chase film fantasies.
Then Margaret rang. Time to settle the flat, finalise the divorce. And so he stood there now.
He rehearsed a wounded look, words of regret, a stoic tear.
Pressed the bell.
“Hello. Come in,” Margaret answered. She looked… radiant. Or maybe he’d just missed her.
He strode into the kitchen like he still belonged. And froze.
A half-naked bloke in joggers stood at the stove, frying steak. The table was stacked with tenners.
“Who’re you?” Leonard croaked.
“Max,” the man said, not turning.
“Meg… can we talk?” Leonard pleaded.
In the living room, he hissed, “Who’s that? What’s he doing here?”
“Cooking dinner,” she said simply.
“And me?”
“You left.”
Silence. Thick as judgment.
“What if I… came back?”
“Where to? Spot’s taken. Max doesn’t mind my ‘practicality.’ He wants a family, kids, a cottage. We’ll marry once the divorce is stamped.”
“And you?”
“And I.”
“And me?” he wailed. “What’s he got that I don’t?”
“You fed me promises. He feeds me dinner.”
The end.
