I felt suffocated too
Mark announced it on a Sunday evening, just as Susan was folding a pile of freshly ironed shirts. He walked into their bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, and said it as though he was making a comment about a dripping tap.
Sue, I cant breathe.
She didnt look up, just put down one shirt and picked up another.
Cant breathe from what?
Everything. The routine. Every day is exactly the same. Get up, have breakfast, go out, come home, dinner, bed. Rinse and repeat.
Susan straightened the sleeves, smoothed out the collar. She was 51, Mark was 53. Theyd spent 26 years together in this flat on Primrose Street, raised their son Michael, whod moved to another city five years ago, only calling on birthdays and Christmas.
So what are you suggesting? she asked, voice calm and even.
I want to leave.
Now she paused. Not because she was scared, but because she looked at him in that way you do when someone finally says the thing you always knew they would.
Where do you want to go?
Rent a place. Be alone for a bit. I need to breathe.
All right, Susan replied, picking up the next shirt.
Mark had clearly been expecting something else. He leaned forward a little.
Arent you going to say anything?
What is there to say? Youre a grown man, Mark. If you want out, then go.
Youre not going to kick off?
She folded the shirt, placed it on the stack, and finally looked at him.
No. But I have one condition.
Whats that?
Dont call me about house stuff. Where is that, how do I fix this, where did you put so and so. If you go, you figure it out.
He fell quiet.
Thats it? he checked.
Thats it.
Mark was a bit lost. Hed steeled himself for tears, accusations, maybe her clinging to his sleeve, talking about the years, about Michael, about how things just arent done this way. Hed rehearsed all sorts of responses in his head. But she just kept ironing shirts.
Fine, he said finally, Ill pack a bag.
Go on then.
He wandered off to the wardrobe, stood there for ages, staring at shelves. Then he started piling jeans, t-shirts and socks into a duffel bag. Grabbed his razor, the phone charger, a book he hadnt touched in six months. When he came out to the hallway, Susan was already in the kitchen, clattering around.
Im off now, he called in her general direction.
Good luck, she replied from the kitchen.
The door closed behind him. He stood on the landing, waited a moment. Nothing. No footsteps, no movement. Pure silence.
He pressed the lift button.
***
He found a flat in two days, through a mate. Tiny one-bed, in the next area over, fourth floor, the windows overlooked the back garden. The owner, an old chap with a bristly moustache, showed him around sharpish, took two months rent up front £1,400 all at once and left. Basic furniture: old sofa, a table, two chairs, a battered fridge, gas cooker. Curtains the colour of stale mustard.
Mark plopped his bag down, sat on the sofa, and looked around.
Total silence. No one walking about in the next room, no telly blaring, no one calling him for tea. He lay back, hands behind his head, and thought: finally, freedom.
First two days were almost pleasant. He woke when he fancied, ate whatever hed grabbed at Sainsburys, mooched about in his socks, didnt answer to anyone. In the evenings, hed ring his old mate Dave; theyd natter for an hour or two, Dave telling him: Right you are, Mark, you shouldve done it years ago.
On the third day, Mark realised he was out of clean socks.
He eyed up the washing machinea little round thing tucked in the bathroom. He opened the door, peered inside, shut it again. Opened it once more. Should be some washing powder aroundthe owner mentioned something about the cupboard under the sink. He found it: For whites and colours. Chucked some in, guessed at the setting, pressed start.
It rumbled to life.
An hour later he fished out his socks, only to find them soggy and, for some reason, slightly pink. Took him a second to twig: hed tossed in a brand new red t-shirt with them.
He left the socks on the radiator. They werent dry until the next evening.
On day four, he decided to cook a proper meal. Bought some chicken breasts, spuds, onions. Dug out a battered frying pan from a cupboard, oiled it, set it on the hob. Oil spat far too loudly; he bunged the whole chicken breast in, still whole, it stuck straight away. Spuds he peeled haphazardly, losing half to the bin, onion made him cry.
In the end, what sat on the plate was halfway between brown and white, tough on the outside, raw inside.
He ate half of it, binned the rest and ordered takeaway.
After a week, he worked out hed spent nearly as much on food delivery as he and Susan had used for all their groceries in a month. He tried to get a grip. Bought groceries, made porridge. That turned out all right, which calmed him a little.
But the domestic stuff was closing in on him, inch by inch, like an incoming tide.
***
The real test was on the tenth day.
Mark was in the shower when he noticed the water wasnt draining. He looked down: a murky puddle crept across the floor. He turned off the tap, waited. The water just stood there. He poked the drain with his toe. Nothing.
He remembered something about the trap under the bathSusan would sometimes say, Need to clean the trap or youll get water standing. He used to just nod and leave the room.
He crouched down, peered under the bath: pipes, joints, a plastic connector. He gave it a wiggle. To his surprise, it turned loose, and immediately freezing, filthy water gushed out, strong and fast.
Mark leapt up, slipped, grabbed the towelwhich went straight onto the floor and got soaked too. He tried to screw the connector back but the water wouldnt quit, soaking into the bathmat, puddling the whole floor.
He hurried into the hallway, slippery-footed, scrambled for his phone, started frantically searching how to turn off water in a flat. Then he remembered: the owner had mentioned a valve under the kitchen sink. He dashed off, found it, twisted. Water stopped.
Back in the bathroom, it looked like an indoor flood zone. Dripping tap, sodden towels, floor slick. Mark just sat down in the hallway, on the wet linoleum in his pants, and stared at the wall.
First thought was to ring Susan, pure instinct: shed know what to do. He was already thumbing her name when he remembered her voice: dont call me about house stuff.
He put the phone down.
Eventually, he called Dave.
Dave, you know how to fix a trap under the bath?
What? Mark, mate, youre speaking a foreign language. I always get a plumber. Ill send you a number, I know a good one.
The plumber came the next day, fiddled with the trap, swapped out a washer, fifteen minutes work, then handed Mark a bill that made him stare in shock for a few seconds.
Is that normal? Mark managed.
About right, said the plumber, flatly, and was gone.
Mark shut the door, thinking Susan would never have paid for a plumbershed have sorted it herself, maybe during lunch, maybe a Saturday morning. Hed no idea when or how, it just happened, like the weather.
***
Meanwhile, hed had an idea he thought was clever.
He called Helenan old flame, really, from about twenty years ago, before he met Susan. Helen had been divorced for years, as hed heard from mutual friends. Theyd bumped into each other now and again, exchanged casual chit chat and polite smiles.
Helen, hi, its Mark Robson.
Mark? She was surprised, but not in a bad way. Goodness, its been years.
I, um Im living alone now. Was wondering if youd like to go for dinner.
She paused a fraction.
Living away from whom?
My wife.
Split up?
Well, in the middle of it.
I see, she said, more cautious now. Yes, all right, lets meet up.
They met at a café in the city centre. Helen had on a smart coat, was looking fit, hair short and sharp. He noticed she looked good. They got a glass of wine each, gossiped about old friends, then she asked,
So, what about you? What do you do these days?
Still work for a construction firm, same as before. Head of procurement, nothing glamorous.
And where are you living now?
Got a place on Green Lane.
Is it nice?
He wanted to say yes, but instead blurted, Its all right, but the washing machine is hopeless at spinning and the cookers on the blink.
Helen looked at him with a kind of sympathy he only later realised was not romantic, but more the kind you show someone whos clearly having a tough run of things.
I see.
The conversation never really took off after that. She asked about Michael, he talked about him. She told him about her daughter, already married. Another glass of wine, then Helen excused herselfearly morning tomorrowso they parted outside the café.
He went back to the flat. The fridge was bare, shops nearly shut, so he found an old pack of instant noodles and made a cup of tea.
Helen never called again, and neither did he.
***
Around the same time, Mark tried catching up with a few of the guys. Rang Dave: Lets do Friday, but Ive got to be home by eight, parents evening at the school. Called Andy: Fine by me, but youll need to drop me home, Im not drinking, the missus and I are off to her folks early Saturday, cant risk a hangover.
They ended up at a small pub near the tube. Three of them: few pints, bit of chat about the footie, a moan about work. Then Dave asked,
Hows life on your Jack Jones, Mark?
Fine, Mark said.
Susan not in touch?
Nope.
They exchanged glances.
Like never at all? Andy probed.
Not once.
More looks between the other two. Dave rolled his pint between his hands.
I reckon thats weird, mate. If I left, mine would ring me three times daily, at least.
Susan doesnt call, Mark repeated.
Thats either good or bad, Andy mused.
How bad?
As in, she might be totally fine without you.
Mark finished his pint. He didnt want to think about it. Although, truthfully, he thought about it every single day.
By half-seven, Dave checked his watch, started pulling on his coat, Andy did the same. They all shook hands and patted Marks shoulder before heading off: back to wives, meetings, family stuff.
Mark stayed for another pint, alone, till last orders.
***
Those first few days after Mark left, Susan felt something like confusion, but a different kind than she had expected. Not emptiness, really, but a strange sense of extra space. Like the furniture had been shifted and she couldnt quite tell if it worked.
She rang her mate Jean on day two.
Hes left me, Susan said.
What do you mean left? Wheres he gone?
Rented a flat. Claims he needs space.
Jean went quiet, then sighed.
Sue. How are you?
To be honest, Im fine. Surprises me, really.
You been crying?
No. Odd, right?
Well, might hit you later?
Could do. Ill see.
Then another friend, Margaret, rangtheyd met ages ago at antenatal class and never lost touch. Margaret wasnt one to mince her words.
Thank god! Margaret said. Been telling you for ten years, havent I?
Telling me what?
That you do everything for him, but get nothing in return.
Dont be daft, Mags.
Im serious. When did you last do something just for you?
Susan thought. Genuinely couldnt recall straight away.
Had my hair cut last year.
Exactly.
The following week, Margaret dragged her to a yoga class. At first, Susan refused, then relented. She turned up in an old tracksuit and quickly realised she was as stiff as a board.
Everyone starts this way, no big deal, [instructor] said.
Within two weeks, Susan could actually bend a little. She was going three times a week. Afterwards, she and Margaret would stop at a café, chatting over drinks. Susan realised it had been forever since she just sat like that, talking, not watching the clock for dinner, for when Mark would come home.
She read in the evenings. Used to nod off after twenty pagesnow she could get through a whole book at her own pace.
One day, Michael rang.
Mum, Dad says hes living on his own now.
Thats right.
How are you two?
Its different, Sue said. Honestly, Im doing all right.
Long pause.
Mum, are you getting a divorce?
I dont know yet. I havent thought about it.
Youre not upset?
Im surprised. But not sad.
He processed that, as he always did, slowly.
Okay, he said eventually. If you need me, ring.
You too, Michael. And not just at Christmas, yeah?
***
Once, Susan did stand in the kitchen, just staring out the window for maybe five minutes.
She was just rinsing her usual morning mug, when she thought: 26 years. Thats a lot. Thats more than half my conscious life. There was good in it. The first tiny flat, DIY jobs that destroyed their hands. Michael as a little kid, knees always scuffed. That summer holiday to Cornwall, laughing at something for three days, though she couldnt later recall exactly what, just the feeling of laughing together.
None of that was coming back. It would just stay in the past now, like old photos.
She waited for the feeling to move on. It did, after a few minutes.
Then she put down the mug, and got her things for yoga.
***
Tom appeared by accident.
It was downstairs neighbour Mrs. Jenkins, mindan eighty-year-old with a sharp memory and the habit of holding long chats on the landing. She asked Susan to change a lightbulb, since her son couldnt make it this week and the hallway was pitch black. Susan fixed it, had a cuppa, and in that moment, the doorbell wentand there was Mrs Jenkins other son, not the one expected, but Tom.
His name was Tom, lived in the same city, just dropped by. About 48, tidy beard, worn but good coat, eyes of a man who works too much.
Mum squashing you into odd jobs again? he grinned, spotting Susan with the bulb.
I volunteered, Mrs Jenkins replied, with dignity.
Tom thanked Susan. Id have come, but I didnt twig she was in the dark.
No worries, Susan said.
They chatted for ten minutes in the hall. Turns out, he worked in construction too, for a different firm. She mentioned her job in accounts. He said his goodbyes, she went home.
Three days later, he rang her bell with a box of chocolates: Just to say thanks. She protested weakly, but took the chocolates.
Mind if I pop in just a sec? he asked. Wanted to ask you about MarkMum said he was in procurement, Ive got a supplier question.
Susan hesitated.
Marks moved out. But I can give you his number.
He nodded, unreadably, and left.
A week later he called again, saying hed sorted things, then invited her for a coffee, as neighbours. She agreed.
They went to a café round the corner, talked work, about his mum, what the aread become. He was good company, listened well, didnt interrupt, sometimes laughed at his own stories before he even finished.
Were you married long? he asked, no hidden meaning, just curious.
Twenty-six years. Or, I suppose, was. Not quite sure now.
Spose it happens, he said, with no prying. She liked that.
They met again, then another time. He never pushed, never rushed, just rang now and then to see how she was. It was the lack of demands that she found freeing. After twenty-six years of obligations, having none felt like opening a window in a stuffy room.
***
Meanwhile, Mark started to notice things about himself hed never realised.
For instance, he was rubbish at waiting. Hed never had to waiteverything just happened: food appeared, clean laundry appeared, if something broke it got fixed. Now, he had to wait for washing to dry, kettle to boil, plumber to call back. Even had to ride out a cold alone, sweating through a fever in stale sheets.
And he didnt know how to eat in silence. For twenty-six years someone was always at the tablefirst Michael, then after he left, Susan. Shed always say something, or just sit quietly, that kind of silence you share with someone else. Now the silence felt empty, just blank.
He started eating with the telly on. Helped a bit.
By the third week, he called Michael.
All right, son?
All right, Dad. Hows things?
Fine. Still on Green Lane.
Mum told me.
Hows she?
Michael was slow to answer.
Fine. She says shes great.
How do you mean, great?
As in, really. She does yoga, sees her mates.
Mark took that in.
Doesnt miss me?
Dad, are you really ringing just to see if Mum misses you?
No. Just asking.
Shes okay, Dad. So are you. Thats good.
Mark hung up, and sat on the sofa with a feeling he couldnt name. Not anger, not quite loss. More like you walk into a room and cant remember why.
***
On day twenty-three, he bumped into a neighbour in the lifta young woman of about 35 hed seen a few times.
She introduced herself as Lauren.
New here? she asked.
Not permanent, Mark replied.
Ah. Split up with your wife, then?
He was struck by her bluntness.
Uh, yeah.
Happens, she shrugged. You on the third floor? Old Mr. Randall used to sing there all night.
No, Im on the fourth. With the mustard curtains.
Ah, so old Donnellys flat. He always rents out to single blokes, says families are too much hassle.
They got out. Lauren lived on the ground floor, worked at a vets, owned a cat and had potted herbs on her kitchen windowsill.
Once, he helped her carry groceries. She made him a cuppa as thanks. Her flat was immaculate and smelled of cinnamon. They chatted. She was bright and sharp and looked you right in the eye. Mark realised, halfway through, he was thinking more about the state of his own flat; at hers, everything was spotless, while he had washing up stacked in the sink from days ago.
They bumped into each other in the lift a few more times, chatted in the hallway. Nothing ever happened, nothing was going to happen; he himself felt like an unfinished thought, something started but abandoned halfway.
One evening, Lauren asked:
Here for long?
No idea, he admitted.
You look like someone who hasnt quite figured out where theyre going.
Probably true.
Dont stay stuck like that too long. I did, for two years after my divorce. Looking back, that was a waste.
He remembered that.
***
Day thirty-one, he went to the market and bought flowers. No reason. No birthday, no anniversary. Just caught sight of big white chrysanthemums at the stall, remembered how Susan always loved thosesaid roses were too presumptuous.
He bought a large bouquet, paid, and got on the tube to Primrose Street.
On the journey, he held the flowers, people looked at himsome with curiosity, some not at all. He kept thinking what hed say. How shed open the door, probably be a bit surprised, but surely happy. After all, 26 years. After all, him.
He pressed the bell. Noticed it was a new one, different from before.
Behind the door, footsteps. Then voices: hers, and, unmistakably, a mans.
He froze.
The door opened a crack, the new chain on. Susans face appeared, cool and calm. She looked at him, then at the flowers.
Mark.
Sue, I came by.
I can see that.
I brought He raised the bouquet weakly.
She looked at him, not angry, not weepy, just matter-of-fact.
Im not letting you in, Mark.
Why not?
Ive changed the locks.
I can see that. Why?
A mans shadow crossed behind her. Mark caught it.
Whos that?
None of your business, she said, not harshjust stating it.
Sue, wait. I Ive realised things.
What things?
He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again.
That life was good. That I never appreciated it. That leaving was a mistake.
She gazed at him through the chain.
Mark, she said at last, softly. Youve realised it was good for you. But you havent worked out what made it good. You think you miss me. You just miss having someone to iron your shirts.
Thats unfair, he protested.
Maybe. But its the truth.
Susan, twenty-six years.
I know. She had her hand on the door. There were good times. But I dont want another twenty-six.
Cant I have another chance?
She looked at him a long moment. Then said,
You know the funny thing? Im breathing now, too. Turns out, I felt smothered as well. I just never said it.
He stood there, holding the chrysanthemums.
Susan
Go home, Mark. Ring Michael, have a chatnot about me, just have a chat.
The door closed. Quietly, no slam. He heard the lock click.
He waited. The bouquet dropped lower in his hand. The flowers were as fresh and sturdy as when he bought them. They didnt know what was happening.
It was hushed on the landing. The faint sound of next doors telly.
Mark turned and made his way to the lift.
***
He pressed the button. The lift arrived, quick, mercifully. As the doors shut, the mirror showed him: a man with a bouquet, decent coat, bit crumpled, looking like someone whod just finishedor maybe just begunsomething.
He stepped out onto the street. It was dark now, lamplight shining, odd people wandering about. He turned towards the tube, flowers still in hand.
But then he stopped.
There, by a bench, sat an old lady, scattering bread to pigeons. Birds fluttered around her boots.
Mark walked over and put the bouquet down beside her.
These are for you, if you like, he said.
She glanced up at him, then at the flowers.
Nice. Didnt want them?
They werent taken.
Happens, she said, and went back to her pigeons.
Mark walked on. The street looked just as it always did, houses exactly the same, life chugging along. Somewhere in this city, Susan was shutting him out and getting on with her evening, her new life, which seemed to suit her far better.
Somewhere, Michael was headed home and needed a call, just for the sake of it.
Somewhere, there was a pile of washing up sitting idle under mustard curtains.
He took out his phone.
***
Later, on the tube, he stared at his reflected face in the pitch-black window. Couldnt see anything but a blurry impression.
Strange business, he thought without thinking anything specific. Just strange.
The train rattled on. Stations came and went. Every sort of person in the carriageyoung, old, tired, wide awake, some with bags, some with books, some glued to their phones. No one gave a monkeys about him, his flowers left on a bench, or his twenty-six years, or a door closing in his face.
He got off at his stop and climbed the steps.
The air was cold, had the scent of snow, that first hint of it when you know its coming but its not yet here.
Mark paused, looked up at the sky.
It was dark, perfectly ordinary.
Then he walked home.
***
That night, about two in the morning, he lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The flat was the same as everthat faded mustard curtain, fridge humming. Everything exactly as itd been all those thirty-one days.
And then he remembered something.
About eight, maybe ten years back, him and Susan went to her parents old place in the countryside. Sat on the veranda one night, mugs of tea, quiet all around, the woods just blackness past the garden fence. Susan said nothing, neither did he, and it was a good quiet, the alive sort, not awkward.
Hed thought, there and then: this is good.
He never said it out loud.
Just thought it, and forgot.
Now, lying on a rented sofa, he tried to remember when hed last felt like that. He couldnt.
Outside, something like snow had begun: just a sparse, tentative drift. The first all year.
It was quiet inside.
***
In the morning, he got up, put the kettle on, and thought, I need proper mugs. The ones in the flat had chipped rims, annoying to drink from.
Then thought, I ought to ring Michael.
Then thought, workthat quarterly reports nearly overdue and he was behind.
Then remembered what Susan had said: Shes breathing, too. Turns out she felt smothered, just like he did.
Hed never known that. Or maybe he did, but never thought it was important. She was just there, always quietly getting on with what needed doing, never once asking if she actually wanted to, or enjoyed it. She was just part of the daily grind he always thought of as a cage, failing to realise it was the same for her, and she kept on in that cage ironing his shirts.
The kettle whistled.
He poured water into the chipped mug, made tea, sat down at the table.
It was properly snowing nowbig flakes, settling on the sill outside.
Mark picked up his phone, scrolled, found Michael.
Put the phone down.
Picked it up again.
Michael, hi. Its Dad. Just thought Id call for no reason. Are you busy?
No, Michael said, surprised. Hi, Dad. Not busy.
Hows it going?
All right. Works all right. You got any snow?
Just started here.
Us too.
They paused a moment. A good quiet, a living quiet.
Dad, Michael said, You all right, really?
Mark looked out at the snow. Nothing was clear, not yet.
Im getting there, he said.
All rightcall me if you need, yeah?
I will. You ring toonot just at Christmas.
Deal, Michael said.
They said their goodbyes. Mark put the phone down and drank his tea. It was decent enough.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
***
Roughly the same time across town, Susan was looking out her own window. A mug of coffee, warmth, and a gentle hush in the room. Tom had already left. He never stayed over, an unspoken rule between them: dont rush, no need to force it.
She thought of Mark, free of pain or anger by now, just absent. Hed stood at her door with flowers, big and a little lost, the look of a man life had humbled, but maybe not taught much.
She wasnt angry. That had faded long ago. At first, when he left, she noticed shed been quietly fuming for agesnot on the surface, but deep down, at things never said out loud. How he never asked how she felt. How the routine weighed him down, but it was a routine she built from scratch by her own hands. How he was bored, but shed never once had time to ask if she was bored. She wasnt allowed time for such questions.
Then the anger melted away. What replaced it was simpler, clearer.
She texted Jean: Yoga tomorrow? Jean replied at once: Been dying to ask. Yes!
Susan smiled and set her mug down.
Snow was falling outside her window too.
***
That evening, Mark phoned his landlord, asking if he could extend for another two months.
Of coursejust pay up front.
Then Mark went to the shops and bought proper mugs, three in case. Picked up groceries: chicken, carrots, potatoes, stock cubes. Looked up a basic soup recipe on his phonefour steps. The last said: Season to taste.
He stood over his pot, wondering what that meant, tasted, added a bit of salt, tasted again. It was almost too salty, but still all right.
He ladled it out. New mugsactually, bowls were better for soup, so he looked for a bowl, found one, and sat down to eat.
It was calm.
In that stillness, soup tasted almost good.
***
Life carried on, the way it always does: quietly, with no explanations. Susan did yoga, met up with Tom, who never demanded anything of her. Mark lived on Green Lane, made his own soup, sometimes rang Michael, had a pint with Dave and Andy, who now occasionally left their wives at home and stayed out a little later.
No one filed for divorce, but only because they were both too tired to make any real decisions.
One time, she bumped into him at the Sainsburys on Primrose Street, the one theyd been using for twenty-six years. He was by the milk, scrutinising the label of yogurt as if it contained the answer to life.
She tapped him on the shoulder.
Mark.
He turned. They looked each other over. He seemed not bad. Had lost a bit of weight, seemed to be paying more attention to things.
Hi, Sue.
Hi. You look fine.
So do you.
They stood there too long for strangers.
Getting yogurt? she said.
Yeah, just trying to choose.
That ones good, she pointed.
Cheers.
He popped it in his basket. She picked up her things and headed off. He went the other way.
At the checkouts, they ended up in adjacent queues. She paid, he paid. They left almost at the same moment.
Well, he said. See you.
Take care, she replied.
She turned right. He turned left.
