My wife was always remarkably shy. Whenever we were with friends, she would sit quietly, modest as a mouse. She never spoke first, only joining in when spoken to. There were never outbursts, nor scenes of jealousy. She cared for me in her own gentle way, never asking or demanding, accepting every gift or gesture of mine with gratitude.
One could have called our marriage perfect. No secrets lingered in the air between us; we handled every matter together. Arriving home from work, I could always expect a hot supper, a cheerful wife, and a neat, tidy house. What more could anyone wish for?
But, as things often go in curious English dreams, a sense of restlessness stirred within me. Even with what seemed a flawless domestic life, I craved something thrilling. There was some nagging dissatisfactionespecially in our private life, which, truthfully, hardly existed at all. I couldnt reconcile myself with it, so, foolishly, I sought excitement elsewhere and began an affair.
My wife found out. We parted ways.
I moved in with my lover, but almost immediately, I realized what an utter fool Id been. The flat was always in disarray; there was never a homemade meal waiting after the days work. Conversation wilted before it even began.
Eventually, I decided I wanted to return to my wife. But it was already too late. In those shadows of English twilight, she had found herself another man.
It haunts melike a tune you cant forget. I let the ideal woman slip away, all because of my own folly.
