Late night, the site was a mess, I could hear the grinder humming in the background. Itll be late, were swamped on the job, Blythes voice came muffled through the phone. Can you hear me at all?
Loud and clear, I shifted the handset to my other ear. Will you be home for dinner?
Dont count on it. I might not even make it back; the deadlines breathing down my neck.
Alright.
A short beep, and the call went deadjust how it always ends.
I set the phone down on the kitchen table and stared at the pot of cooling carrot soup. Id been making enough for two out of habit, even though I knew I should have stopped by now. Blythe worked as a tiler, her schedule looking more like a heartmonitor trace than a calendar. One moment it would spike with frantic activity, the next it would flatten into a long, steady line. For six months she roamed from site to site, laying pricey porcelain tiles in other peoples flats, pulling in enough money to make me quietly envious. Then a sixmonth lull when work vanished and she stayed home.
Both extremes were unbearable in their own way. When Blythe was on the job she vanishedphysically, emotionally, mentallycompletely. Shed leave at seven in the morning and, if she returned at all, it was after midnight. Sometimes she even slept on the site, saying, Whats the point of driving back and forth, Ill be starting again at six anyway. Id eat dinner alone, bingewatch shows, and crawl into a cold, empty bed. The only reminder that I was still married was the marriage certificate tucked somewhere in a drawer of paperwork.
I tried to count how many dinners wed actually shared in the past three months. Four. Four!
The real nightmare began when the workday was over. Blythe would come home, and youd think Id be thrilledwife back, finally some time together. Not so. After six months of hopping from one apartment to another, shed seen so many designer solutions that our own home started to irritate her. Shed stare at the bathroom tiles shed laid herself two years ago and her eyes would narrow.
This is a nightmare, she muttered, running a finger along the grout lines. How could I have let this happen? A misalignment of one and a half millimetres. One and a half millimetres, Ethan!
I, who wouldnt have told the difference between a oneandahalfmillimetre shift and a fifteenmillimetre one, just nodded politely.
Then the cascade began. First shed say, Let me just see if I can fix it. Next, Ill chip out one tile, replace it, and thatll do. Then, If were starting, we might as well redo the whole wall, otherwise its pointless. And soon Id walk in from work to find the bathroom gonejust bare walls, heaps of demolition debris, and Blythe in a respirator, happily mixing tile adhesive.
In three years of marriage wed survived four bathroom overhauls, three kitchen remodels, and one corridor redo.
The job eventually wrapped up on time, and a calm period settled over her work. Not for me.
Can you bring me some tile spacers? Blythe called while I was at the office. And grey groutIll text the brand.
Im at work.
Just swing by at lunch. I need to finish that corner before evening.
Fine.
Bring, pick up, order, helpI became a courier, a mover, and a handyman all at once. Blythe never left the house, only venturing out to the building supply store for materials, sometimes three times a day, claiming, I didnt know the grout wouldnt be enough, how was I supposed to know?
She was constantly exhausted from the renovations she herself had launched. In the evenings Id find her in the kitchen, dirty, ragged, tile dust in her hair, staring at me with vacant eyes.
Do you want dinner?
Later. Ive no energy.
She had no energy for conversation, for a film, for intimacy. I was only useful for fetching rollers when she felt too lazy to dress, or hauling a sack of cement from the van, or holding a level while she aligned a row.
Were married, Blythe would say whenever I tried to protest. Spouses help each other.
Spousesa laughable term for a relationship where one person exists solely as support staff for the others professional ambitions.
On a Saturday night Blythe was sorting the backsplash tiles; the previous batch didnt match the shade she wanted. I was perched in the kitchen amid the chaos, trying to sip tea. The kettle sat on a stool in the hallway because the countertop was buried under tiles. I found sugar in the bathroom and couldnt locate a spoon anywhere.
Blythe, I began cautiously, cant this go on forever?
What do you mean? she didnt even turn, fitting another tile to the wall.
All this renovation. Youre always redoing something in the flat.
And what? I like it. This is my home; I want it perfect.
Itll never be perfect for you. Youll finish one project, move on to another site, get inspired, and start over again.
She dropped the tile and faced me, something sharp flickering in her eyes.
What are you suggesting? Living like this while everything around me drives me mad?
Im suggesting we live normallylike ordinary people. Go to the cinema, have dinner together, talk about anything other than grout lines. Do you even remember the last time we went out just the two of us?
My work.
You dont have work right now! Youve invented it yourself!
Its not an invented job, Ethan. Its called improving living conditions. Some people specialise in that.
And some people just want to live. Not on a construction site, not in dust, not in a fetchandcarry mode. Live with a wife who remembers she has a husband.
Blythe crossed her arms as if bracing herself.
You just dont get it. Youre a programmer, you sit in a cosy office tapping keys. I create something with my handssomething real you can touch. When I see I can make it better, I do.
At the expense of everything else!
If youre not happyno ones holding you back.
She said it almost casually, as if she were talking about a creaky chair she could toss. I fell silent. In that single sentence lay our whole problem, compressed into seven words. For Blythe, I was an optiona switchoffable feature, not a necessity, not a husband, not a loved one.
You know, I said, shaking the dust from my jeans, maybe youre right.
Right about what?
That nothings really keeping me here.
We stared at each other through piles of tiles, bags of adhesive, the remnants of what had once been a kitchen. Both of us understood the fight wasnt about the renovation; it was about two lives that had drifted apart long ago, intersecting only at the same postal address.
We filed for divorce within three monthssurprisingly amicable. There was nothing to split.
I walked around my new flatsmall, tidy, no sack of cement in sightand could hardly believe the silence. No drilling, no banging, no frantic requests for sealant because the last tube ran out.
For the first time in three years I could actually plan my evenings. Yet there was a hollow in my chest that nothing could fill.
Almost two years later, my old mate Dave rang on a Friday night. Heard any news about your ex?
I tensed. Id avoided any talk of Blythe since the split.
What news?
Shes married now. Got hitched recently.
Fast, huh?
Yep. Guess who the groom is? Dave paused dramatically. A tiler. Can you imagine?
I snorted.
Hows it working out?
Looks perfect. Theyre a twoperson crew, hopping sites together. A dream team.
I thought about Blythe finding someone who speaks her languagea person who treats a oneandahalfmillimetre misalignment as a tragedy and knows the difference between epoxy and cement grout without being told.
Three months after that call, I ran into them at the supermarket, completely by chance. Id stopped for milk after work, basket in hand, heading for the dairy aisle, when I froze.
Blythe stood by the yogurts, a broadshouldered man of similar age, his hands clearly accustomed to physical labour. They were picking out items, arguing softly, laughing. He nudged her shoulder, she jabbed him playfully in the side, she squealed and hopped away. They looked like teenage sweethearts, oblivious to anyone else, the whole world narrowed to each other.
Blythe seemed different. No longer weary, no empty stare of someone whod been hammering walls for eight hours straight. She looked lively, just as I remembered her on the day we first met.
I hesitated, set my basket down, and left the store emptyhanded.
In my car I smiled. We were never meant for each other. Our divorce had been inevitable.
I turned the engine over.
If Blythe has found her match, I can find mine too.
The dense fog that had settled over my life after the split finally lifted.
Lesson learned: holding onto someone who no longer fits your rhythm only keeps you chained to a life of endless repairs; letting go opens the way to build a home where both hearts can rest.
