I felt breathless, too
On Sunday evening, Simon announced it. Ruth was in their bedroom, methodically folding crisp, ironed shirts into neat piles. He stepped in, perched on the edge of the bed, and said it just like he was reporting a leaky tap.
Ruth, I cant breathe anymore.
She didnt look up. One shirt finished, she picked up another.
What do you mean?
All this. The routine. Every day the same. Wake up, eat, commute, return, eat, sleep. Over and over, round and round.
Ruth smoothed out the sleeves, straightened the collar. She was fifty-one, he fifty-three. Theyd lived in this flat on Rosewood Road for twenty-six years, raised their son, Adam, whod moved up to Manchester five years back, phoning only at Christmas or on birthdays.
So what are you suggesting? she asked, even-toned.
I think I need to leave.
She paused, not frightened, just observing him with the steady gaze you reserve for a person stating the inevitable.
Leave for where?
Somewhere else. A place to myself. So I can breathe.
All right, Ruth said, and reached for another shirt.
Simon clearly expected something different, leaning forward,
Arent you going to say anything?
What is there to say? Youre an adult, Simon. If you want to go, go.
Youre not going to make a scene?
She folded the shirt, set it atop the pile, finally looking him in the eye.
No. But one condition.
Whats that, then?
Dont ring me about where things are, how anything works, what Ive done with something or other. If you want to leave, you need to figure it all out yourself.
He sat quietly.
Thats it?
Thats it.
Simon didnt know what to do with her calm. Hed braced for tears, blame, for her to clutch his sleeve and talk of years, of Adam, of what people would think. Hed even mentally rehearsed replies. But Ruth just continued folding, unruffled.
All right, then, he said at last. Ill get my things.
Go on, then.
He disappeared into the boxroom, staring for ages at the shelves. Then he began packing: jeans, t-shirts, socks. He grabbed his razor, his phone charger, a book he hadnt opened in half a year. He stepped into the hallway. Ruth was in the kitchen, clattering about.
Im off, he called towards the kitchen.
Good luck, came her reply, floating over the whirr of the washing machine.
The front door snapped shut. He lingered on the landing. Silence. No footsteps rushing after, nothing. Just quiet.
He pressed the lift button.
***
He found a flat in two days, a one-bed on an ordinary street, fourth floor, windows facing a tired but leafy courtyard. The landlord, a stooped gent with a barrage of nose hairs, gave it the quickest tour, took two months rent in advance, then vanished. The flat was furnished: a saggy sofa, a wobbly table, two mismatched chairs, a stuttering white fridge and a tiny gas cooker. The curtains were a yellowish colour, like cold mustard.
Simon set down his bag, sat, and looked around.
Total silence. No footsteps next door, no TV left on, no one summoning him for dinner. He lay back, hands behind head, and thought: there. Thats what freedom feels like.
The first two days felt almost good. He woke when he pleased, ate what he likedwell, what hed remembered to buyroamed about in socks, freed at last from accounting for his comings and goings. Each evening he rang Dan, his old mate, for long talks filled with hollow laughter. Right thing, Simon! Shouldve gone ages ago! Dan crowed.
By the third day, Simon realised: hed not a single clean pair of socks.
He eyed the washing machine, glaring at him from the poky bathroom. It was small, round and mysterious. He opened the porthole, peered in, shut it, opened it again. Where had the landlord said the soap powder was? Under the sink. He found itblue box, promised brighter whites, brighter colours. He slopped a guess into the slot, jabbed the button for some cycle that looked right.
It groaned into life.
An hour later, Simon pulled out the laundrysocks were limp, damp, with a not-so-subtle pink blush. Why? Hed chucked in that new red shirt. Socks went on the radiator until the evening after.
Day four, he thought to cook a proper meal. Bought chicken breast, potatoes, onion. Found a pan with most of the Teflon gone; sloshed in oil. The oil shrieked in the heat, chicken lobbed on whole and stuck at once. Potatoes peeled unevenly, almost half lost in the skins, onion stabbing his eyes with tears.
The final result: a sort of brownish-white mass, tough on top, raw within.
He ate half; tossed the rest and ordered a curry from the local.
A week in, he tallied what hed spent on takeawaysnear what he and Ruth spent on groceries in a month. Time to pull himself together. He bought groceries, boiled rice. The rice was palatable, which reassured him.
Still, domestic life pressed upon him from all sideslike damp creeping along a wall.
***
The breakthrough arrived day ten.
Simon was under the shower when he noticed the water pooling at his feet. He looked down: a murky puddle spreading slow. He switched off the tap; waited, nothing drained away. Prod at the plugholestill water.
He remembered siphon. Ruth mentioning it, saying, Youll have to clear the waste, else the waterll back up. He usually nodded and retreated to the lounge.
Simon crouched to peer under the bath. Pipes, another pipe, some white plastic union. Wriggled itsuddenly, with shocking ease, it came off and water gushed. Not a trickle, but a floodcold, dark, relentless.
He leapt, slipped, grabbed the towel (which at once fell and joined the deluge). He tried screwing the union back onno luck, water everywhere now, surging down the hallway, the bathmat sopping in seconds.
He ran, wet-footed, for his phone. Where was the stopcock? He had a flashthe landlord said under the kitchen sink. Flung himself into the kitchen, found it, yanked. Water halted.
Back in the bathroom: disaster zone. Soaked rug, sodden towels, puddles spreading. The waste trap still dripping.
Simon plonked himself down, bare-legged, on the hall floor, staring at the wall.
First thought: ring Ruth. Not a thought, a reflexshed tell him what to do. He found her name, finger hovered remembered her words: No calls about the house.
He put the phone down.
Instead, he called Dan.
Dan, you know how to fix a waste trap?
Eh? What? Dan, obviously mid-argument with his kids, background squabble rising.
Waste trapunder the bath, its leaking.
No clue, mate. I always call a bloke. Here, Ill text you a plumbers number.
The plumber came next dayprodded the pipes, replaced a washer, fifteen minutes work. Charged him so much Simon gazed at him in disbelief.
That standard? Simon croaked.
Quite standard, the plumber said without emotion, and disappeared.
Simon closed the door. Ruth never called a plumber for such nonsense. She fiddled, tightened, bought bits at the shop. He never knew when or how. It just happened, like the weather.
***
Meanwhile, an idea occurred to him.
He phoned Emily, a woman hed had a vague brush withpossibly an almost-affairyears before Ruth. Emily had been divorced ages, hed heard. Occasionally their paths crossed at friends birthdays; theyd chit-chatted, smiled.
Emily, hello. Simon Jennings.
Oh! Simon? she sounded surprisingly pleased. Its been years.
Im, wellIm living separately now. Fancy dinner out, just the two of us?
A pause.
Living separately from whom?
My wife.
Split up?
Sort of in progress.
Understood, she said, with a shift in her tone, a touch of caution. Sure, lets catch up.
They met at a café in the city centre. Emily wore a crisp coat, had a smart new haircut. She looked well. Two glasses of wine; they talked mutual friends. Then she asked,
So, what are you doing?
Still supply manager at the building firm. Same as always.
And living where now?
Flat near Elm Street.
Is it nice?
He wanted to say yes but heard himself say,
It’s all rightwell, the washers a problem, cookers on the blink.
Emily watched him. That expressiontook time to decode: pity. Not the blossom of romance, but the glance you give someone whose lifes scuffed along a bit.
I see, she said again.
The conversation fizzled. She asked about Adam; he told her, she about her married daughter. Second glass finished, she excused herself for an early start. They parted at the café entrance.
He returned to the little flatempty fridge, shops closed, noodles in a packet. Kettle boiled, meal made.
She didnt call again. Neither did he.
***
He next tried meeting the lads. Called DanFridays good, but only till eight, theres a parents evening and he must get home. Called Samcould do, but needed a lift back, cant drink, wife wants him for a family visit the next day.
They met the three of them in a gloomy pub near the station. Two pints, football, work chat. Dan asked,
So hows life in the wild, then?
Fine, said Simon.
Ruth not ringing you?
No.
Dan and Sam exchanged glances.
Not at all? Sam asked.
Not at all.
Another silent glance. Dan toyed with his glass.
Bit odd. My missus would ring me three times a day.
Ruth doesnt, Simon repeated.
That could be a good sign, mused Sam, or a bad one.
What do you mean, bad?
I mean, shes probably all right without you.
Simon finished his pint. Hed been thinking that every dayhe just hated others saying it.
Half past eight, Dan pulled on his coat. Sam followed. Their routine: home, wives, meetings, family.
Simon stayed, drank a slow pint until closing.
***
Ruth, meanwhile, did feel a sort of pause those first days, but not the hollowness she imagined. Instead, a peculiar surplus of space. As if the furniture was rearrangedcouldnt quite tell if it was better or worse.
She called her neighbour Jane on the second day.
Hes left, said Ruth.
What do you mean? Wheres he gone?
Rented a flat. Says he needed space.
Jane was quiet, then sighed,
Oh, Ruth. How are you?
Honestly? All right. Rather surprised, myself.
Cried at all?
No. Odd, isnt it?
Maybe itll hit later?
Maybe. Well see.
Another friend rang, Margaret, whom Ruth had met at antenatal twenty-odd years ago and never shaken off. Margaretless tactful than Jane.
Thank God, Margaret said. Ive been telling you for ten years.
Telling me what?
That you were living like a skivvy. Without pay.
Oh, dont be like that.
But its true. When did you last do anything for yourself?
Ruth thought, couldnt answer immediately.
Had my hair cut last year.
Exactly.
Next week, Margaret invited her to yoga. Ruth said no, then changed her mind. The local hall was round the corner. Ruth wore an ancient tracksuit, barely flexible.
Everyone starts out stiff, smiled the instructor, a cheerful woman in ponytail.
Two weeks later Ruth could touch her toes. She went three times a week. Afterwards, she and Margaret went for coffee, sat chatting, an hour gone in a flash. Ruth realised she hadnt just sat, talking, in yearsthere was always dinner to make before Simon got home.
Evenings, she read. Books used to collapse on her bedside before page twenty; now, an hour or more, no rush.
One day, Adam called.
Mum, Dad says hes living separately.
Yes, he is.
Hows things?
Mixed, Ruth said. Actually, Im all right.
Pause.
Mum, are you and Dad divorcing?
Dont know yet. Not thinking about that.
Are you upset?
Im surprised. But not unhappy.
Another pausehe always needed time to process, Adam.
All right, Mum. Ring if you need.
You too, love. Not just at Christmas.
***
One day Ruth found herself still a moment, stood at the kitchen window, hands on a mug.
She was washing her usual morning cup, when the thought landed: twenty-six years. Thats long. More than half her life. Thered been good times, too. Their first flatpeeling wallpaper, hands raw with DIY. Adam, little, knees perpetually bandaged. A seaside holiday fifteen years back, all laughtershe couldnt recall the jokes, but the laughter was vivid.
None of that would happen again or, rather, it lived now in the past, as flat as old photographs.
She waited for that weight to passit did, after three or four minutes.
She put the cup on the draining rack and got changed for yoga.
***
Owen appeared by accident.
It was Mrs Giles, the eighty-year-old neighbour below, encyclopedic memory and a taste for thirty-minute doorstep chats. She asked Ruth to change a lightbulb; her son wouldnt come till next week. Ruth changed it, had a cuppa, just as Mrs Giless other sonunexpectedturned up.
His name was Owen. He worked locally and wore a good waxed coat, tired eyes, clearly overworked.
Mum, are you enslaving the neighbours? he laughed, seeing Ruth with the bulb.
Ruth offered, said Mrs Giles, dignity intact.
Owen turned to Ruth.
Thanks. Wouldve come, but didnt know Mum was sulking in the dark.
No bother, Ruth said.
Ten minutes of chat at the threshold. Turned out he was also in building supply, in a different firm. She mentioned accounting. He left. She went home.
Three days later, a knock. Hed brought groceries for his mum andin her wordshad popped by to hand Ruth a box of chocolates, a thank you.
Really, thats unnecessary, Ruth protested; but took them, smiling.
Mind if I pop in for a sec? he asked. Ive a question about your Simon. Mum says hes in supply. Ive an issue with a supplier contract.
Ruth hesitated.
Simons not here anymore. But I can give you his number.
Thanks, Owen said, showing no particular surprise. Sorry to trouble you, then.
A week later, he phoned: solved the contract himself, wondered if Ruth fancied coffeejust neighbours. Ruth, surprised, said yes.
They went round the corner. Talked work, his mum, changes in the neighbourhood. He was soft-spoken, never rushed, sometimes chuckling too early at his own stories.
Been married long? he asked, absent-mindedly.
Twenty-six years. Or wasuncertain now.
Happens, he said with gentle matter-of-factness.
She appreciated that.
They met again. Owen didnt press, just called sometimes, asked how she was. Ruth found the lack of expectation refreshingafter twenty-six years of obligations, an open window in a stuffy room.
***
Simon, meanwhile, began noticing things previously invisible.
For instance, he had absolutely no patience. At home, things simply happenedmeals appeared, clean clothes materialised, repairs just sorted themselves. Now he had to wait: for the laundry to dry, for water to boil, for the plumber, for a cold to slog by while he lay ill alone in crumpled sheets, gulping tap water by the mug.
He also discovered he couldnt eat in silence. For all those years, someone was thereAdam, then only Ruth. Whether talking or simply present, it was a living silence. Now, the silence was dead, empty.
He took to eating with the television blaring, just for company.
About three weeks in, Simon called Adam.
All right, son.
All right, Dad. Hows things?
Fine. Still at Elm Street.
Mum told me.
Hows she?
Adams pause was a few beats too long.
She says shes well. Doing yoga. Seeing friends.
Simon absorbed this.
Shes not lonely?
Are you ringing to ask if Mum misses you, Dad?
No, just asking.
Shes all right, Dad. So are you. Thats good.
After the call, Simon sat on the sofa, wrapped in a feeling impossible to pin downnot resentment, not exactly. More like walking into a room and forgetting why.
***
On the twenty-third day, Simon shared a lift with the neighbour from across the halla woman about thirty-five hed seen a few times. She introduced herself,
You new here? she asked politely.
Temporarily, Simon confessed.
Ah. Split with your wife?
He was startled by the frankness.
Yes.
These things happen. Are you on the third? Mr Pollards old place? The one who sung all night?
No, the fourth. The one with the yellow curtains.
Oh, Mr Edwards owns that. He always rents to men alone. Reckons wives are more fuss than its worth.
They exited the lift together. Karen, she said she worked at the local vets, had a cat, lots of ferns on her windowsill.
He later helped her carry bags from Tescos. She made them tea, kitchen full of cinnamon scentfriendly, clever, steady gaze. He noted her spotless kitchen, compared it to his unwashed bowls two days old.
They met several more times in the lift or by the mailboxes. Nothing developedcouldnt, really, as Simon felt unfinished, like a thought left dangling.
Once she asked,
Will you be staying long?
I dont know, he admitted.
You seem like a man who hasnt decided where hes going yet.
Thats probably right.
Nothing wrong with that, Karen said. Just dont let it drag on. I did, after my divorce. Two whole years, wasted asking myself.
He remembered that.
***
Thirty-one days in, Simon ventured to the market and bought flowers. For no one in particularnot a holiday, not a plea. Just because he saw white chrysanthemums and remembered Ruth always preferred them to roses, said roses looked too much like a statement.
He brought the bouquet, paid in pounds, took the Tube to Rosewood Road.
On the train, bouquet in his lap, people watched himsome smiling, some indifferent. He rehearsed what he might say, imagined Ruths surprise, imaginedmaybehope.
He reached the door, pressed the new bellhe noticed it straight off; someone had replaced the button since hed left.
Voices behind the door; hers, and a mans, not his own.
He froze.
The door cracked open, a security chain awkwardly slicing his view. Ruths face appeared, calm, impassive.
Simon.
Ruth, Ive come.
I see.
I I brought He half-lifted the bouquet.
She regarded himno anger, no tears.
Im not opening the door, Simon.
Why? He couldnt think of another word.
Ive changed the locks.
I can see that. But why?
A mans shadow drifted behind Ruth. Simon caught it in his peripheral vision.
Whos that?
Its not your concern, Simon, she said evenly.
Ruth, please. Ive realisedit was a mistake. I was happy with you. I didnt value it. This, all of this, was a mistake.
She was silent, watching him through the open crack.
Simon, at last she spoke, quietly, Youve realised you were happy. But you havent worked out why you were happy. You think you miss me, but really, you miss someone ironing your shirts.
Thats not fair, he protested.
Perhaps not. But its true.
Ruth, we had twenty-six years.
I know. She gripped the door, Some of them were good. But I wont do another twenty-six.
You wont give me a chance?
She looked at him, for a long moment. Then she said,
Heres the funny part. Ive started to breathe, too. Turns out, I was suffocating as well. I just never said it.
He stood with the bouquet in his hand.
Ruth.
Go, Simon. Talk to Adamjust a chat, not about me, just talk.
She closed the door, gentle, with barely a click. The lock turned.
He waited. The chrysanthemums drooped, grazing the floor. They were fresh and firmthey knew nothing of it all.
On the landing, quiet.
Next door, a telly murmured.
Simon turned and walked to the lift.
***
He pressed the lift button; it came quickly. In the reflected glass he saw himself: man, bouquet in hand, good jacket, a bit crumpled, face of someone who had just come to the endor the beginningof something. Or possibly both at once.
He went outside. Night had swept across the streets, lamp-posts glimmered, distant passers-by drifting along. He walked toward the station, still holding the chrysanthemums.
Then he stopped.
On a bench sat an old lady, tossing crumbs to pigeons at her feet.
Simon approached and set the flowers on the bench.
Take them, if you like, he said.
She looked up, then at the bouquet.
Lovely flowers. Didnt want them, did she?
No, she didnt.
Lifes like that sometimes. She tossed a final crumb and turned back to her pigeons.
Simon moved off. Same street, same houses, same world ticking on. Somewhere, Ruth had closed the door, returned to her evening, one that apparently suited her just fine.
Adam, somewhere else in the city, headed homeSimon should ring him, just to talk.
In some flat, yellow curtains closed, dirty plates waited for washing up.
He took out his phone.
***
Later, deep under London, Simon stared long at the windowjust an inky, formless reflection.
Strange, he thought, without thinking anything specific. Juststrange.
The train clattered on. Stations flicked by, carriage full of other lives: the young, the old, weary, alert, with bags or Kindles, or burrowed into their screens. No one had a clue about him, or the flowers, or the door shut tight on twenty-six years.
He got out at his stop, rose to the chilly evening outside.
The air was sharp, tinged with the bite of coming snow not yet fallen, but already there in the air.
Simon stood, head tipped skywards, staring at the night.
The sky was perfectly, boringly, dark.
He walked home.
***
That night, around two, sleep eluded him. The flat was unchanged, the sickly curtains blockading the faintest hint of streetlight, fridge crooning its tired tune. Everything as it had been all these endless thirty-one days.
A memory flickered: eight, maybe ten, years ago. Theyd gone to Ruths parents cottage. Sat on the veranda at dusk, drinking tea, garden shading into forest. Ruth was silent, he too. But it was the good kind of silence, living, the kind you never had to fill.
Hed thought then: now, this is happiness.
He never said a word. Thought it, then forgot it.
He lay on the sofa in his rented place, trying to remember when last hed felt that, really felt it. He couldnt.
Outside, something like snow beganshy, half-hearted. The first of the year.
The flat was silent.
***
In the morning, Simon boiled the kettle and decided: it was time to buy decent mugs. The ones here had a chip, nasty to drink from.
He thought to ring Adam.
He remembered: quarterlies at work soon, hed fallen behind.
He thought about what Ruth had said: She was breathing now, too. Shed been suffocating as well.
Hed never known. Or had, but never thought it mattered. Shed always been there, always done what must be done. Hed never bothered to ask if she wanted that, if she liked it. Shed become a fixtureone he mistook for a cage, never considering she might have found it confining, too, quietly pressing his shirts all the while.
The kettle whistled.
He filled the chipped mug, made tea, sat at the wobbly table.
Snow began, real now, covering the sill.
Simon took his phone, opened Adams contact, hesitated. Put it away.
Then fished it out again.
Adam, its Dad. Just thought Id ringno reason. Are you busy?
No, not really. Hi, Dad.
Hows things?
All right. Work. Got snow there?
Just started.
Here, too.
A pausegood silence, living silence.
Dad, Adam said, how are you, really?
Simon gazed at the snowfall, undecided, on the wrong side of resolution.
Im figuring it out, he said.
All right, Adam replied, his solid self. Call if you want.
I will. You should ring, too. Not just at Christmas.
Deal, Adam agreed.
They said goodbye. Simon finished his tea. It was ordinary tea.
Snow in the window.
***
Elsewhere that same hour, Ruth sipped coffee by the window. It was warm and tranquil. Owen had left, not stayed the nightan unspoken agreement: not yet, dont rush.
She thought of Simon. No pain, no joyjust a memory, the way you think of someone who shaped your life. She remembered him at the door with flowers, awkward, chastened, looking as if life had taught him just enough and not a bit more.
She didnt feel angry. That had ebbed earlierat first, shed surprised herself with a quiet fury, hidden beneath her calm. Angry that hed never asked how she felt. Resentful that he tired of routine, yet shed stitched the routine by hand. Angry that his boredom stole all thought, while her own breathless moments went unconsidered.
With time, the anger faded. Left her surer, solid.
She wrote a message: Jane, yoga tomorrow? Immediate reply: Was waiting for you! Yes.
Ruth smiled, set down her cup.
Snow was falling outside her window, too.
***
That evening, Simon rang the landlord and asked for another two months.
Of course, the landlord said cheerfully. Pay up front.
Then Simon went to the shop and bought new mugsthree in the end. Why not three?
He picked up proper groceries: chicken stock, onions, carrots, spuds. Looked up a soup recipe on his phonefour steps, the last: season to taste.
He stood over the pan, musing on to taste. He salted, tasted, added more salt. Too much, but the soup was all right.
He fetched a new mug, realised mugs werent for soup, found a bowl, ladled the soup, sat.
Silence.
In its quiet, the soup was edible.
***
Life trickled on, as life doeswithout explanation or apology. Ruth did her yoga, sometimes met Owen, who understood how not to hurry her. Simon rented on Elm Street, made soup, phoned Adam, saw the lads sometimes.
Divorce never came uptoo much like effort, each of them too drained for effort.
Once, Ruth bumped into Simon at the old shop on Rosewood. He was scrutinising the ingredients on a milk bottle like the fate of Europe hung in the balance.
She crept up,
Simon.
He swivelled. They looked at each other, both looking, strangely, all right. He was thinner, but steadier now, his gaze a little less distracted.
Hello, Ruth.
Hi. You look well.
You, too.
They stood a moment.
Getting milk? she asked.
Yes, but Im dithering.
This ones nice, she pointed at a bottle.
Thanks.
He took her advice, she picked up her groceries. They queued at adjacent tills, paid, left together.
Well, then, Simon said, hovering.
Goodbye, Ruth said.
She went right, he turned left.
Snow fell, and outside, ordinary life went on, unnoticed as a pigeon in Trafalgar Square disappearing underfoot.
