I came home one evening and, without even taking off my shoes or coat, announced: “We need to have a serious talk.”
Standing there in the hallway, still bundled up, I said:
“Emily. We really need to talk.”
Then, in one breath, my eyesalready quite largewidened even further, without a trace of doubt:
“I’ve fallen in love.”
*Well then*, Emily thought, *here comes the midlife crisis. Welcome to the club.* She gave me a careful once-over, something she hadnt done in years (five? six? maybe even eight?).
They say your life flashes before your eyes when youre about to die, but for Emily, it was her entire life with me that suddenly played out. Wed met online, the most ordinary way these days. Shed shaved three years off her age, and Id added an inch to my height. Simple tricks, but somehow, against the odds, we matched each others search criteria andfound one another.
Emily couldnt remember who messaged first, but she knew my opening line had been free of vulgarity, laced with light self-deprecation, which she liked. At thirty-three, assessing her chances in the “dating market,” she was painfully aware of her positionnot quite last in line, but close enough. So for our first date, she didnt aim too high: a nice dress, oversized sunglasses, fashionable lingerie, homemade biscuits in her bag, and a copy of *Pride and Prejudice* tucked under her arm.
That first meeting went surprisingly well (*see what dressing right does?*), and our romance unfolded quickly, full of enthusiasm. After six months of steady dates and relentless parental pressure (her parents had nearly given up on grandchildren), I finally proposed. We introduced our families, opted for a small weddingapproved unanimouslyand married on the first available date, just in case anyone changed their mind.
Life was good, or so Emily thought. Ours was a marriage of tropical stabilityno fiery passions, but a steady, respectful warmth. Isnt that happiness?
As a typical man, I shed my “emotionally deep, romantic failure with golden hands” persona within weeks of the wedding, settling into my true self: a simple, hardworking bloke in joggers and a T-shirt.
Emily, ever the woman, loosened the corset of her “mysterious, intellectual homemaker” image more graduallyuntil pregnancy sped things up. A year later, she, too, embraced comfort, trading her polished look for a cosy dressing gown.
The fact that neither of us mourned our lost personas, nor held it against the other, convinced Emily shed made the right choice. Two kids later, our family ship rocked through storms but never capsized, always steadying when the waves calmed.
Happy grandparents helped where they could. At work, we climbed the ladder slowly but surely, still making time for holidays, hobbies, and each otherjust your average, statistically unremarkable couple.
Twelve years in, and Id never once been caught flirting. Emily wasnt the jealous type, so I couldve gotten away with it, but the idea was laughable. Early on, after a few clumsy compliments, Id admitted praise wasnt my forte and switched tacticsnow I just *looked* at her, eyes widening like an owls.
Over the years, Emily learned to read my emotions by the roundness of my eyes: wild admiration, quiet approval, stunned surprise, sudden confusion, utter bewilderment, or full-blown irritation. And now, picturing me whispering sweet nothings to some floozy while blinking like a madman
Her throat went dry. She forced a smile.
“So whats her name, then?”
My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Fidgeting, I stammered:
“Howhow did you evenhow could you possibly guess it was a *hamster*?!”
I pulled a small, greyish-brown creature from my pocketpink ears, twitching nose, beady black eyes.
Emily stopped listening. She stared at me, at my new love, at the way we cuddled her, and felt overwhelmingly grateful that Id fallen for a hamster one that looked just like her.
*Lesson learned: sometimes love sneaks in through the smallest, furriest door.*
