Oliver lay on his back, the weight of Martha’s head nestled perfectly in the hollow of his collarbone. One of her legs was slung over him, her palm pressed flat against his chest, right above his heart. He listened to her steady breathing, wrapped in a haze of contentment. *This, forever,* he thought, closing his eyes.
Then he jolted, as if nudged awake by some invisible hand, and blinked into the dimness. Next to him, Martha stirred.
“Time already?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Oliver couldn’t see the window from the sofa, but the darkness pressing into the room told him evening had long since fallen—time to leave their little hideaway. The thought made his chest tighten.
They’d met too late—both already knotted up in marriages, in responsibilities, in lives they couldn’t just walk away from. So they lived for these stolen afternoons, the anticipation nearly as sweet as the hours themselves. He sighed without meaning to, and Martha lifted her head.
“It’s pitch black!” she gasped, suddenly wide awake, springing up from the bed. The spot where her hand had been felt cold. She was right there, yet his heart ached like she was already gone.
“Come on, we’ve got to go. What am I supposed to tell my husband?”
“The truth,” Oliver said, tossing aside the duvet and standing.
They dressed quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes. He didn’t care what waited for him at home anymore; he was numb to it. The lying, the hiding—he was sick of it. But Martha was jittery, irritated at the wasted time, at the way they’d dozed off when they should’ve been talking, laughing, *living*.
“Just say you ran into an old school friend,” Oliver suggested. “Lost track of time.”
“He knows all my friends. Might even call them.” She wouldn’t look at him.
“Then say it was someone from uni, an old housemate, not a close friend.”
“And what will you tell your wife?” Martha stopped buttoning her blouse and fixed him with a stare.
He stepped closer, wrapped his arms around her, searched her eyes.
“She stopped asking a long time ago.” He kissed her, and she melted into him for a breathless second before pushing him away.
“We’ll never leave at this rate,” she muttered, fastening the last button.
Oliver wanted to say something—anything—to ease the tension. He’d offered a hundred times to rip off the bandage, to tell their spouses, to stop the charade. But the kids… He adored his ten-year-old Lizzie, and Martha fretted endlessly over her twelve-year-old, Jack.
When they’d first started this, he’d assumed it would fizzle out after a few reckless afternoons. But it hadn’t. He’d toss everything away for her in a heartbeat—but would she do the same? Martha always dodged the question, asked for patience, begged him not to rush her. He exhaled sharply.
“Don’t be cross. We agreed…” Guilt crept into her voice.
“You go down to the car. Keys are in my jacket. I’ll tidy up.” He started gathering the sheets.
“Don’t be long,” she called from the hallway.
The hours had vanished too fast. Usually, after the rush of passion, they’d talk for ages, spinning fantasies of a life together. Today, they’d foolishly slept half of it away. Now there was an uneasy weight between them, something unfinished.
The weak bulb in the hallway cast dull light. The door clicked shut. Martha was gone. Oliver folded the sofa back into place, stashed the sheets in the drawer beneath it—untouched by the landlady, exactly as they’d found them. He scanned the room. No traces left.
In the cramped hallway, he shrugged into his coat, pulled a few folded twenties from his pocket (withdrawn earlier from the cashpoint for this exact reason), and left them on the side table. A flick of the switch, and he was out the door.
The flat—a tiny, discreet rental—belonged to an elderly widow. A colleague at work had tipped him off about it, having used the place himself in his own *complicated* days. The landlady vanished at their agreed-upon time. He never asked where she went. She needed the money; they needed the privacy.
A hotel would’ve been easier, sure. But hotels meant staff, CCTV, running into people they knew. Worse, it meant sleeping on sheets a hundred other desperate lovers had already worn thin.
On the stairs, he nearly collided with a woman laden with shopping bags. He muttered a greeting and sidestepped her. She didn’t reply, but he felt her stare burning into his back.
In his own building—where he lived with his wife and daughter—neighbours exchanged polite, meaningless hellos. Here, strangers were met with suspicion. The elderly especially.
The car was cold when he slid inside. Martha sat stiffly, her face unreadable in the dark.
“Ready?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should just tell them. End the lies. We’re good together. But where would we even live?”
The unfinished conversation had clearly gnawed at her, too.
“We’d figure it out. Rent a place, at least at first.”
“Like *that* one?” Her voice wavered.
He didn’t reply, focusing on the road. The outskirts were clear, but traffic thickened as they neared the city centre. He pulled over a few streets from Martha’s house. She leaned in for one last kiss—a fleeting warmth before reality crashed back in.
“Tuesday?” she whispered as she pulled away. Her eyes glinted; streetlamps or tears, he couldn’t tell.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Oliver promised.
Martha stepped out without looking back, disappearing into the gap between buildings.
He waited for a moment, foolishly hoping she’d change her mind, sprint back to him. Then he turned the car around and drove home.
***
The flat was dark, save for the strip of light under Jack’s bedroom door. Martha peeled off her coat and peeked in.
“Hey. Dad home yet?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Came in, then left again.”
“Did he say where? Or when he’d be back?”
“Nope.” Jack didn’t look up from his homework.
“I’ll get dinner on.” She retreated to the kitchen.
They’d met on the street. She’d been walking home from uni when a car slowed beside her, the driver—a man a decade older—asked for directions. The address was tucked deep in a maze of housing estates, too convoluted to explain, so she offered to show him.
After that, he started waiting for her outside lectures. She’d climb into his car under the envious whispers of her friends.
When he proposed, her mother had been adamant.
“He’s steady. Won’t stray. You’ll want for nothing. What more could you want? Love burns quick, girl. Starts with kisses, ends with shouting, drinking, cheating… This one? Solid. Older. Flat. Car. Doesn’t touch the stuff.”
So she said yes. Back then, she’d thought she might learn to love him. She never did. When she found out she was pregnant, her first thought had been *termination*. Then fear took over.
“A son’ll cling to you forever,” her mother had said. “Your husband paid for my cataract surgery. Buys my blood pressure meds, my arthritis pills. I’d be bedridden without him.”
All true. But how did you live without love? Comfortable, yes. Fed, yes. But hollow. Then, a year ago, she’d met Oliver. Her heart—starved for so long—had latched onto him instantly.
The front door clicked open. Her husband’s heavy footsteps shuffled through the hallway. He slumped into a kitchen chair.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” she said, not turning around.
Silence. After a minute, she glanced over her shoulder. He was staring blankly at the table, lost in thought.
“Everything alright?”
He startled, then levelled her with a look—uneasy, almost frightened. Or was that just her nerves?
“You tell me,” he countered.
“Ran into an old friend… Well, not a friend, someone from school. Lost track of time.”
She could’ve stayed quiet—he hadn’t even asked—but the words tumbled out anyway.
“I’ll call Jack for dinner.” She escaped to the hallway, grateful for the reprieve. Something was off. The air around him crackled with tension.
They ate in silence.
“What’s wrong?” she finally burst out.
“Nothing *now*,” he muttered, eyes on his plate.
*Now?* Her stomach lurched. Women always *knew*, even before they knew. Martha realised with icy clarity: he *knew*. Had done *something*. But what? She barely made it to the bathroom in time.
“You ill?” His voiceAnd as she stood there, trembling, the phone rang again—Oliver’s name flashing on the screen, a lifeline in the wreckage of her world, but this time, she let it ring unanswered, because some choices, once made, could never be undone.
