The best lovers are often wives whove long been counted out.
When I was younger, I thought marrying Sophie was just bad luck. She seemed cold. Or rather, she didnt used to bethere was a time when the spark between us made me rush home at the end of the day. But now, that fire had gone out. Our life together was fine, all things considered: the house was tidy, the supper cooked, and our son had grown up enough to choose his own university in another city. But everything felt on autopilot, lacking the energy of those wild early days. Quietly, Sophie had slipped from being a seductive femme fatale into the sweet, homely hippo league, and I had accepted itjust another part of married life.
Id stopped feeling jealous ages agowho was there to be jealous of? Her colleagues from work? The cashier at the local Tesco? Jealous of seventy-five kilograms of predictability and comfort?
So what I used to do secretly, I started doing almost openly. Browsing dating websites just to see whats on offer, message flirting for that ego boost, evenings at the pub with matesyou know how it is, a bloke needs a break. Sophie noticed once or twice, got suspicious, argued a bit, then went quiet. I took her silence as giving up: she knew her place.
Then, out of nowhere, she landed a business trip. I was over the moonfinally, I could live as a free man. I spent days imagining how Id chat online, meet someone for coffee, maybe more. Life suddenly seemed more colourful.
Reality was much less exciting. I sent nearly a hundred messages on a dating site; ten replied, only four conversations really started, and they faded fast. One woman launched straight into crypto investment chatter, another was clearly a bot, two more lost interest after a few exchanges. I realised, to my surprise, that a man, almost single, with his own flat and steady salary wasnt the hot property Id thought he was.
One evening, while deleting traces of my online adventures, I stumbled across something odd about Sophies trip. The more I dug, the more unsettled I became.
The trip was real. But there was a catch: Sophie was travelling with a young companion, her lovera bloke of twenty-seven. Not only was he going with her, he was going on her coin. Shed paid for his train fare, the hotel, and even the dinner bookings, all out of her own pocket. The same quiet, boring, cold wife.
At first, I couldnt believe it. Then came the rage. Turns out, while Id been lazily scrolling for adventure, my homely hippo was living the sort of wild life Id only dreamed about.
It kicked off a massive row, with mutual accusations and days spent talking it over.
Some chaps would say you ought to toss a wife like that out in the cold. But no one left. We shouted, we cried, we argued, and then it hit us: living together is still easier than living alone.
Funny thing is, I suddenly saw Sophie differently. Not as a fixture of the house, but as a woman with her own longing and imagination. Who, by the way, could still be desirablejust not to me.
Im not about to recommend these experiments as a solution for marital happiness. They usually end in divorce, tears and shredded nerves. But this story sticks with me for one simple reason: those so-called cold wives arent always cold. Many of them are simply exhaustedby daily routine, indifference, and by not being seen as women anymore.
And sometimes, all it takes is a tiny pushfor everyone to realise the hippo in the house is actually a blazing woman. Shes just blazing for someone else, someone who notices her fire.
