**Diary Entry**
*How Like a Suitcase with a Broken Handle…*
“Oliver, don’t come to see me anymore. Alright?” I asked calmly.
“What do you mean? Not today?” Oliver didn’t understand.
…It was early morning, and there he stood in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, don’t come at all,” I clarified.
“Hm… What’s wrong, Diana? Fine, I’ll call you later.” He kissed me hastily and hurried away. I shut the door behind him and exhaled in relief.
…Those words had been a long time coming. They didn’t come easily. Oliver had been almost like family.
Last night, I had been passionate, insatiable. I was saying goodbye. Oliver hadn’t suspected a thing. He’d only said, surprised:
“Diana! You’re brilliant today. A goddess! Stay just like this—I love you, darling.”
…We used to be family friends. Me, my husband James, Oliver, and his wife Bella (he’d affectionately called her “Squirrel”).
Our youth was loud, restless, reckless. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Oliver. When I bought a dress, shoes, a handbag—partly for him. Would he like it? Bella had been my closest friend.
The things we’d been through together! Too much to recount. I knew Oliver wasn’t indifferent to me, but we’d always kept our distance.
At gatherings, he’d hug me tenderly, whispering:
“Diana, I’ve missed you so much!”
Honestly, when families are friends, there’s always some attraction—men to women, or the other way around. People are weak to temptation. Someone likely fancies someone, perhaps even a friend’s wife. That’s why they stay close. Until they don’t.
I don’t believe in friendship between a man and a woman. Likely, there’s been a bed between them, or will be. Sooner or later, they’ll “out-friend” themselves. Like lighting a fire near a haystack—sooner or later, it all burns down. There might be exceptions, but few.
…My James would lick his lips and glance at Bella. I’d noticed, smacking him playfully.
He’d laugh it off:
“Diana, don’t be daft! We’re mates!”
Then, chuckling, he’d add:
“Only the dead are sinless…”
I trusted Bella completely—she’d never cross the line. But my James? He loved picking berries from others’ gardens. Twenty years later, we divorced. He married one such “berry” when she babbled about an heir. By then, our grown children had left home. I packed his suitcase and wished him well in his second marriage.
“So this is loneliness,” I’d lamented at first.
Oliver and Bella visited often, pitying me. But truthfully, I wasn’t suffering—except on holidays. Then, the flat felt stifling, and I’d wander from room to room, aching for someone to talk to, argue with, even cry with.
…Three years later, Oliver was widowed. Death spares no one. Bella had suffered a long illness, and before she passed, she’d entrusted him to me:
“Diana, look after Oliver. I don’t want him with some other woman. He’s always liked you—I felt it. Be together.”
Oliver grieved dutifully, bought a granite headstone, planted flowers. In time, he visited more often. I welcomed him openly, helping him mourn. I poured warmth, care, love over him. We had much to reminisce over—laughter and tears alike.
…Life had marched on. We’d shared joy and sorrow. Oliver and I became inseparable.
But slowly, I grew weary of it. I snapped at him, bickered pointlessly, nitpicked. Eventually, I realised—he wasn’t for me!
His scent was wrong, the bed cold, his humour absent. He prattled meaninglessly, grating on my nerves. Oliver was tedious—fussy with food, clothes. No matter how he shone, he’d never be the sun. Bella must’ve adored him to endure it.
My soul twisted. Perhaps I’d grown too used to solitude. All my fondness for Oliver had vanished. When he began to irk me unbearably, I suggested parting amicably. I decided: one unforgettable night (let him remember!), then we’d go our separate ways.
Oliver, meanwhile, adored me, blind to any rift. He met my sharp words with innocent smiles, kissed my hands, never argued.
“Diana, don’t be cross,” he’d say sweetly. “Everything will be fine. You won’t get rid of me so easily.”
And truly—who else would love me like him? His words melted me like candle wax.
…He called during lunch.
“Diana! What’s happened? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Come home early. I’ve missed you terribly,” I mumbled guiltily.
Ah well… Like a suitcase with a broken handle—too awkward to carry, but a shame to throw away. Our paths were tangled now.
What else could I do? Abandon a widower entrusted to me? He’d be lost without me…
