The Years of Solitude: A Six-Year Trial Without a Loved One.
Emily felt utterly worn out. Six years had passed since her husband left her. Her daughter had married a year ago and moved to another city.
At forty-two, Emily was in the prime of her lifea second youth. She was an excellent homemaker, her pickled cucumbers with tomatoes were called masterpieces. But who would she make them for now? Rows of empty jars lined her balcony.
“Will I really waste away alone, still so lovely?” Emily would say to her friends. Theyd reply, “No! Look for a man! There are plenty of single men.” One suggested she try the agency *The Finest Gentleman*. Emily thought it absurd, even embarrassinggoing to an agency. But then again, forty-two gnawed at her. The old grandfather clock on the wall ticked away the hours with a hollow, relentless sound.
So she went. A pleasant woman with strawberry-patterned glasses greeted her.
“We truly have the best. Lets browse the database togetherhave a seat!”
“Yes, theyre all handsome,” Emily smiled. “But how do you know if hes the one?”
“Everythings arranged,” the woman assured. “We give you a week. Enough time to decideyours or not. Worth continuing or moving on.”
“You give me… what?”
“A husband!”
“How?”
“Just like that! He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not shy brides herewe talk business straight. No maniacs or lunatics in our files.”
Emily suddenly liked the idea. She and the strawberry-glassed lady picked five candidates. Emily paid a modest sum and hurried home. The first was due that very evening.
She slipped into a green dressthe colour of hope. She even put on the diamond earrings she so rarely wore.
*Ding-dong!* The doorbell chimed.
Emily peeked through the peephole. Roses. She nearly squealed with delight. She opened the door. The man was elegant, just like his photo.
They sat at the table. Emily had cooked a feast. The bouquet stood in the centre. She stole glances at her pleasant guest, thinking, *This is it. No need for the others. Him!*
They started with salad. The prospective husband frowned. “Why so much vinegar?” Emily forced a smile, served him roast pork. He chewed. “Tough…” Nothing pleased him. Distracted, Emily forgot the wine shed carefully chosen. She poured. “To new beginnings!” He sniffed the glass, took a sip. “Cheap stuff.” He stood. “Lets see your place.”
Emily picked up the roses, handed them back. “I actually hate roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she shed a few tears. It stung. But four more meetings awaited.
The second arrived the next evening, reeking of whisky. “Evening, love!” Emily asked, “Did you mention our meeting to anyone?” He grinned. “Oh, come off it! Got a telly? Matchs onUnited versus City. Well chat over it.” Emily snapped, “Watch it at home.”
Another night alone, another round of tears.
The third candidate was no lookerworn jacket, dirty nails, muddy boots. Emily planned to politely send him away but fed him first. He ate greedily, praising her cooking. She blushed, brought out her pickled cucumbers. “Blimey!” he cried. “Best thing Ive ever tasted!”
Then the grandfather clock chimed. The man perked up. “Whats that noise?” He climbed onto a stool, inspecting the clock. “Ill fix this quick. Got any tools?”
Soon, the clock ticked clean and clear. Emily was overjoyedit felt like a sign. This unhandy man was meant to be hers. So what if his boots were muddy? Theyd wash. And three was a lucky number.
That night, she preparedsalon visit, luxury bedsheets with roses (she did love them, after all). When she stepped out of the bath, he was already asleep, fully clothed. Unbothered, she gazed at him fondly. “Poor thing, exhausted.” She slipped under the blanket beside him.
Then the nightmare began. He snored. Masterfully, thunderously. Emily muffled herself with a pillow, then him, even rolled him overnothing. She suffered through the night.
Morning came. The man shuffled into the kitchen where Emily sat, frazzled. “Well? When can I move my stuff in?”
Emily shook her head. “No, sorry. Youre lovely, but… no.”
The fourth, a bearded bloke, reminded her of an old adventure film hero. She even let him smoke in the kitchen. He exhaled. “Emily, lets be clear. Im a free man. Love fishing, lads trips. Hate being naggedWhere are you? Understand?”
She watched him ash into her orchid pot. “Do you see other women?” He smirked. “Why not? Freedoms normal for a bloke.”
After he left, Emily aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed. She felt drained, lifeless. She didnt even bother washing the dishes.
Morning light bled through the curtains. Sparrows chirped. Emily felt… good. Saturday. No rush, no one to bother her, no snoring, no ash in her plants. The dishes? Shed wash them later. Peace. Freedom.
Then the phone rang. “Emily! *The Finest Gentleman* calling. Your last candidates tonighthes perfect, absolutely yours!”
Emily nearly shouted into the receiver. “Cross me off! Delete me! No more! The finest man is the one who isnt here!”
Laughing, she yanked open the curtains.
