**The Wait for Happiness**
They say the anticipation of happiness is better than happiness itself. Because while you wait, while you hope and imagine it, you are already happy. The moment you possess it is fleeting—gone before you can savor it, before joy solidifies into mere routine. And then the waiting begins again.
Mark Evans had everything: a flat in London, a car, a decent job with a good salary, and a wife—quite beautiful, too. They’d been sweethearts since secondary school, childhood love blooming into marriage against all odds.
He also had a four-year-old daughter, little Lilibet. His sunshine, his pride. His wife stayed home with her, and Mark adored his child beyond reason.
What more could a man want? Life was good. But human nature is restless—when everything is settled, the hunger for more grows.
Over the years, he and his wife had settled into an easy rhythm. They understood each other without words, without glances, even in silence. Passion had mellowed into steady companionship.
Every morning, Mark drank strong coffee, left steaming on the table after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts that smelled of sea salt and starch, kissed his wife’s cheek gratefully, and drove his Audi to work.
Evenings brought hearty dinners. Weekends were for barbecues at his parents’ countryside cottage, winters for sledding. He thanked fate often—few men had luck like his.
And yet…
One day, a new colleague arrived at the office—young, fresh-faced, with dark, doe-like eyes that held a skittish, teasing glint. Her name was Lucinda Harper. Lucy. It hummed like a melody. Maybe it was her eyes, or the music in her name, or just that nameless thirst for something new, but Mark was spellbound. His heart recognized her and fluttered with the promise of happiness.
He kept running into her—by the coffee machine, in the lift, at the sandwich shop at lunch. Or was she running into him? Either way, he decided to help fate along.
One morning, he lingered in his car outside the office, waiting until he spotted Lucy’s light step on the pavement. He timed it perfectly, bumping into her at the entrance, holding the door open like a gentleman.
In the lift, he stole glances when he could. Sometimes he even caught her looking back. But conversation was impossible—the office was too crowded, the lift never empty.
Then, one day, they rode up alone to the eighth floor. He asked about work, about the weather, about her weekend plans. She answered with small, knowing smiles.
Autumn passed. Winter came. The Christmas party loomed, and Mark pinned his hopes on it. No one would question him coming home late—or not at all.
All evening, he watched Lucy. When the music started, he was the first to ask her to dance, beating other would-be suitors. Holding her close, his heart raced, his skin tingling—just like when he was fifteen, dancing at the school disco with his future wife, Eleanor. Lucy’s dark eyes promised him everything.
Flushed with wine and motion, they slipped into the corridor for air. “Let’s escape,” he whispered. Without hesitation, she agreed. Coats on, they dashed outside, laughing like thieves.
The security guard watched them go, envy sour in his throat. No one had invited him to the party. No one remembered him—no champagne, no chocolates to soften the sting. He wouldn’t have drunk on duty, but he’d have taken it home, bragged to his wife about being valued. Instead, he sighed and buried himself in a crossword.
Mark and Lucy wandered through the city, laughing about nothing. He avoided mentioning his marriage; she pretended not to care.
With Lucy, everything was effortless. “Lucky, lucky…” his heart thrummed in time with their footsteps on the packed snow.
Mark was tired now, regretting leaving his car at the office. Lucy still hadn’t said, “This is my place.”
“Come on, Lucy, do you live outside the city or something?” he finally asked.
She laughed, bright as bells. “The edge of town, the new builds. I’m knackered too—let’s get a cab.”
Outside her flat, he stalled, unwilling to let the taxi go. The alcohol had worn off, and guilt whispered that he could still make it home in time to read Lilibet a bedtime story. Then Lucy—clever Lucy—invited him in for coffee. “Just a quick one,” she said. “You need a rest before the drive.”
He sent the cab away, promising himself fifteen minutes.
The coffee never happened. Inside, on the thirteenth floor, they fell into each other’s arms and didn’t surface for hours.
When Mark finally stood by the window, the world outside was swallowed by darkness—no moon, no stars, no streetlamps, no lights in distant windows. Just void. It took his breath away. Lucy joined him, and for a moment, he felt they were the only two souls in the universe, floating above a snow-dusted earth. His heart swelled with joy. *This* was what he’d been dreaming of.
Leaving was agony. But suspicion had to be avoided—this was only the first time. He showered, dressed, kissed Lucy endlessly, swore he couldn’t live without her, then hailed a taxi back to the office. The party was long over, the building dark. His car stood alone in the car park.
He crept into his flat half past two. Streetlight bled through the curtains. His wife lay still, eyelids pressed tight to hide trembling. He knew she was awake. He pretended not to. Undressed silently, slid under the covers without touching her.
Sleep should have been impossible, but it came instantly.
They never fought, never raised their voices. Thin walls, after all. Better to keep things civil. Sometimes Mark imagined confessing—even then, he doubted Eleanor would scream.
When colleagues visited, they envied his marriage. Men came to work haggard after rows; Eleanor never policed his drinks, never humiliated him. To the world, they were perfect. Before Lucy, he’d believed it too.
The next morning, he woke renewed. Hummed in the shower. His wife handed him coffee, tilted her cheek for a kiss.
After that, he met Lucy at her flat—no risk of being seen on the outskirts. Only the desperate and the young lived there.
Sometimes guilt gnawed at him. A double life was messy. If Eleanor had been cruel, it would’ve made sense. But she wasn’t.
He weighed the scales: on one side, Eleanor, Lilibet, certainty. On the other, passion—youth, vigor, intoxication. How could he refuse?
A year passed. But all things end. Even sweets grow stale. The thrill waned. More and more, he longed for quiet evenings at home. Passion drained him.
He’d known Eleanor since childhood—he knew her. But Lucy? Would she be as steady, as safe? He had too much to lose. And lately, Lucy kept asking—*When will we be together?*
He mumbled excuses—Lilibet was too young, wait until she’s older. But Lucy pressed harder. Doubt settled in. He needed to choose.
The scales tipped. Eleanor was safety. Lucy was wildfire. And what of his daughter? He didn’t want upheaval.
He tried to end it—but one kiss from Lucy, and resolve crumbled. If only Eleanor had her fire, or Lucy her calm.
One afternoon at his desk, he rehearsed the breakup speech. Then—pain. Like a vice around his heart. His breath vanished. He stood, stumbled—then nothing.
Voices reached him through fog.
“Poor sod held on longer than I would’ve…”
“Women ran him ragged…”
“Mark, wake up, don’t leave me—” (Lucy’s voice, raw with tears.)
“Don’t leave *us*…” (Eleanor’s whisper.)
“Daddy, read me a story—” (Lilibet, crying. He strained to open his eyes.)
The voices swirled, senseless.
*God, am I dead? I’m only thirty-two. I want to live. I’ll fix everything—just let me live.*
A voice, quiet and clear, cut through the noise. *You promise? No more lies? You’ll leave her?*
“Yes! Who—who are you?”
*You can’t see me. You’d go blind.*
“I’m not ready. My daughter—”
Then—air. Painful, glorious air. His lungs burned, expanded. Alive.
“Doctor, he’s awake!”
Light seared his eyes. He shut them. That other place had been softer.
“You scared me,” someone said—Eleanor, bent over him.
Breathing grew easier.
Lucy visited twice, crying in the corner, whispering before fleeing Eleanor’s shadow.
Two weeks later, home from hospital, he played with Lilibet, read to her. Eleanor was all kindness. How had he wanted more?
Then—his phone buzzed.
“Hi. I miss you. When will I see you?” Lucy.
“Not now,” he murmured.
“She’s there?” Lucy sighed. “I just need to see you—”
He could’veHe deleted her number and closed his eyes, knowing that the waiting—the wanting—was over at last.
