**Six Years Alone: A Trial Without a Loved One**
Emily felt utterly exhausted. Six long years had passed since her husband left her. Her daughter had married last year and moved away to another city.
At forty-two, Emily was in the prime of her lifea second youth. She was an exceptional homemaker, her cooking was sublime, and her pickled cucumbers with tomatoes were called masterpieces. But what was the point now? Rows of empty jars sat gathering dust on the balcony.
“Surely, I wont waste away alonenot like this, not while Im still beautiful!” Emily would lament to her friends. They would reassure her, “Of course not! Look for a man. There are plenty of lonely ones out there.”
One suggested she try an agency called *The Perfect Man*. Emily hesitatedit felt absurd, almost embarrassing. But then again, forty-two gnawed at her, a number too heavy to ignore. The antique clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, marking wasted hours with its hollow chime.
So, Emily went. A pleasant woman with rose-tinted glasses greeted her.
“We truly have the best,” she said warmly. “Lets browse the database togetherplease, sit!”
Emily smiled faintly. “Yes, theyre all handsome. But how can you really know? How do you know hes the one?”
“Everythings been thought of,” the woman replied smoothly. “We offer a trialone week. Enough time to decide if hes right for you. If not, we move on to the next.”
“A trial?”
“A *man*.”
“How does that work?”
“Simple. He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not shy brides herewere talking business. No madmen, no fools.”
Strangely, Emily liked the idea. Together, they chose five candidates. She paid a modest fee and hurried home. The first was due to arrive that very evening.
Emily slipped into an emerald-green dressthe colour of hopeand fastened diamond earrings she seldom wore.
*Ding-dong.*
Peering through the peephole, she saw roses. A quiet thrill ran through her. She opened the door. The man was elegant, just like his photo.
They settled at the table. Emily had prepared everythingsalads, roast pork, even the wine shed carefully selected. The bouquet took centre stage. She stole glances at her charming guest, thinking, *Thats it. No one else. Him.*
He took a bite of salad and frowned. “Too much vinegar.”
Emily forced a smile, offering him the pork. He chewed slowly. “Tough.” Nothing pleased him. In her nervousness, shed forgotten the wine. She poured a glass, raising it. “To new beginnings!”
He sniffed. “Cheap stuff.” Then he stood. “Well, lets see how you live.”
Emily picked up the roses and handed them back. “I actually hate roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she weptquietly, bitterly. But four more meetings awaited.
The second arrived the next evening, reeking of whisky. “Alright, love?” he boomed.
Emily stiffened. “Have you been drinking?”
He grinned. “Relax! Got a telly? The match is startingUnited versus City. Well talk after.”
She pointed to the door. “Watch it at *your* home.”
Another sleepless night followed.
The third man was no charmerworn coat, grubby fingernails, muddy boots. Emily already planned her polite dismissal. Still, she fed him first.
He ate greedily, praising her between mouthfuls. She blushed. Then she served her pickles.
“Bloody hell!” he cried. “Best thing Ive ever tasted!”
Just then, the antique clock chimed. He tilted his head. “Whats that noise?”
Before she could answer, he was atop a stool, inspecting the mechanism. “Got any tools? Ill fix it in a tick.”
Soon, the clock ticked cleanly, sweetly. Emilys heart swelledthis was a sign. He was kind, skilled. So what if his nails were dirty? That could be fixed. And three was a lucky number.
That night, she readied herselffresh sheets, silk nightdress, even a spritz of perfume. But when she emerged from the bathroom, he was already asleepfully clothed.
She smiled fondly. “Poor thing, exhausted.” She slipped in beside him.
Then the horror began.
He snored. Not just snored*roared*. She muffled herself with a pillow, then him, then rolled him sideways. Nothing worked. Dawn found her hollow-eyed and wretched.
In the morning, he stretched. “Right then. Where shall I bring my things tonight?”
Emily shook her head. “No youre lovely, butno.”
The fourth was bearded, rugged, like a hero from an old adventure film. She even let him smoke in her kitchen. He exhaled lazily.
“Listen, Emily. Lets be clearIm a free man. Fishing trips, lads weekends. No nagging, no *Where are you?* Got it?”
She watched as he flicked ash into her orchid pot. “And women?”
He smirked. “Why not? Freedom, love.”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed; her limbs were leaden. She didnt even wash the dishes.
Morning light spilled through the curtains. Birds chirped. Emily stretched, revelling in the silence. *No hurry. No one snoring, no demands.* The dishes? They could wait. Peace. Freedom.
Then the phone rang.
“Emily! Its *The Perfect Man* agency. Your final candidate is tonighthes *the one*, we promise!”
She nearly shouted into the receiver. “Take me off your list! Delete me! The perfect man is *no* man!”
With a laugh, she threw open the curtains.
