A Second Wind
Roger wasn’t exactly a looker, not like some Hollywood heartthrob. He worked as a simple engineer at a construction machinery plant. Didn’t drink much—maybe a pint at Christmas—and never smoked. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never so much as glanced at another woman.
Their daughter had moved to Edinburgh with her husband, not in any hurry to give them grandchildren. Roger didn’t mind. Kids meant noise, mess, and responsibility. He was used to quiet evenings with the telly and a newspaper. What’s the rush? Plenty of time for grandchildren later.
His wife, Margaret, was perfect in every way—well-kept, lovely to look at, kept the house spotless, always had dinner ready. Birthdays meant homemade cake and shepherd’s pie. Life, in short, was settled.
Driving home, squinting against the setting sun, he looked forward to a hot meal and his usual spot in front of the telly.
Roger stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Usually, Margaret would call from the kitchen, telling him dinner was nearly ready. Tonight—silence. A flicker of unease stirred in his chest. He walked into the living room.
Margaret stood by the wardrobe, yanking dresses off hangers and tossing them onto the sofa, where an open suitcase lay waiting.
“Going somewhere? Off to see the daughter in Edinburgh? She pregnant or something?” Roger asked.
Without looking at him, she folded the dresses into the suitcase.
“Deaf now, are you? I’m shouting, and you don’t even answer. Where are you going?” Roger repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.
Margaret glanced around the room, checking she hadn’t missed anything, then tried to shut the suitcase. It bulged, the zip threatening to burst.
“Instead of standing there gawping, you could help,” she huffed, flicking a strand of hair from her face.
“I asked where you’re going with all your things. That a stupid question?” Roger clenched his jaw, irritation simmering.
“Where d’you think? I’m leaving you,” she shot back, defiant.
“Why?” Roger’s left brow arched.
“I’m bored. Now, are you going to help or not?” She jerked her chin at the suitcase.
“Bored of what?” Roger strode over, shoved the lid down, and forced the zip shut in one sharp movement.
“Everything. You. Cooking every night. Sitting indoors staring at the telly.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve mixed it up—gone to the theatre or something,” Roger said, grasping at the first idea that came to mind.
“So I could die of shame when you start snoring? One day blurs into the next, and life just… slips away.” Her voice cracked—something raw beneath it.
“Can’t stop time, love. Whether we move or stand still, it passes anyway,” Roger said, philosophically.
“Don’t be clever. I want something to look back on. What’ve I got? Frying sausages? Washing up? You glued to the paper in front of the footie?” Her voice rose, sharp.
“You think I’ve nowhere to go but our daughter’s? I’m leaving for a man who sees me—really sees me. Who writes me poetry…” Her gaze lifted, misty.
“And me?” Roger asked, realisation dawning.
“You? You’ll carry on like always. Only now you’ll cook and iron for yourself. You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago—changed the colour. Did you even see?” She smirked, dropped the suitcase, and dragged it toward the hall, wheels leaving marks on the cream carpet.
As Margaret rustled into her coat, Roger stared at those twin tracks. Felt like the suitcase had rolled right over his heart, leaving the same grooves.
Only when the front door slammed did he flinch, tearing his eyes from the carpet. Now it hit him—she was gone.
He needed to do something. Habit took him to the kitchen. The kettle sat cold. The fridge held half a pot of stew, leftover ham, a couple of tins, eggs, and a dribble of milk. He shut it. Appetite gone.
Back in the living room, he sank onto the sofa where her suitcase had been. No desire for the telly or the paper. Funny—those things mattered when Margaret was there, even if she was just clattering pans or ironing while half-watching some drama. Home had been alive. Now—silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
He sighed, staring at the blank screen, trying to make sense of it. The quiet gnawed at him—like she’d taken all the sound with her. Roger grabbed his jacket, shoved on his shoes, and left. But the emptiness followed.
Passing a pub, he saw people laughing inside. Wanted to be among them, fill the hollowness. Without thinking, he walked in. Ordered a whiskey. Then another. The pain dulled.
No memory of getting home. Woke with a pounding head, still in his clothes atop the duvet. The room spun when he tried to stand.
What day was it? Fumbling for his phone, he squinted at the screen—Saturday. Toilet. Then back to bed.
Two hours later, he felt human again. A shower helped. Dressed, he stepped outside. Sun shone, people bustled past, cars hummed. His stomach turned passing the pub. He hurried toward the river.
A woman smiled at him. He glanced around—no one else nearby. She was smiling at him.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it? Almost like summer,” she said as they drew level.
“Yeah,” Roger muttered.
She paused, waiting.
“Erm… Sorry, do we know each other? Bit out of sorts today,” he mumbled.
“Something wrong?” Her eyes searched his—kind.
“Yeah. Wife left me. For a poet. Writes her verses. I don’t,” he blurted.
“You look pale. Let’s sit.” She scanned for a bench—all taken.
“Wife’s gone. Had one too many last night. Not that I drink much,” he added, wiping his damp forehead.
“You should be home, resting. Let me walk you.”
As they went, she talked—son married and distant, daughter’s new bloke she couldn’t stand.
“You really don’t know me? I’m in accounts at the plant. That you don’t recognise me—says a lot. Means you’re a decent family man.”
“Decent? She still left. Fancy a cuppa? House is like a morgue,” Roger said, nodding toward his place.
“Not proper, is it? Your wife just gone, and me coming in? Another time.”
“Then I’m not going back either.”
She hesitated, then linked his arm. “Come on.”
Over tea, they talked. Felt like he’d known her years ago, just forgotten.
“Off already?” he said when she stood.
“Getting dark. You need rest.”
At the door, he asked for her number. The second she left, he collapsed into bed. Woke feeling less bleak. Found leftover sandwiches, boiled the kettle. Then rang her.
“Erm… Didn’t catch your name—or forgot… Jenny? Pretty. Fancy a walk later? By the river? Great. See you.”
He pulled on a fresh shirt, humming. Life had colour again.
After work, he’d wait for Jenny by the factory gates, drive her home. Often they’d eat out or cook together at his. She’d laugh at his stories.
One evening, he said:
“Why d’we act like kids? Cinema, walks. I’ve got the space. Why stay where you’re not wanted? Move in.”
“Is that a proposal?” Jenny asked, barely surprised.
“Yeah. Only—still married. But that’ll sort itself.”
She stayed. He adored her—or how she made him feel. Like a second wind. Rushed home at five sharp, stopped at the shops. Sat chatting while she cooked. In weeks, they’d talked more than he and Margaret had in years.
Then—click of the lock. “Margaret.” Cold sweat.
“Thought you’d be starving. Instead, you’ve replaced me quick,” Margaret said, stepping in. The air crackled.
“She left you first,” Jenny said.
“And you are?” Margaret’s gaze swept over her.
“And you?” Jenny stood, chin up.
Roger sat frozen. Tension thickened. Margaret back? And Jenny? He couldn’t lose her. Margaret was the past—Jenny, his second wind.
“Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.
Her eyes held entitlement. Jenny’s—fear, hope.
“If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you. But Jenny… She made me believe again. With her, I’m happy. If it’s the flat you want, we’ll sell, split it.”
Margaret’s mouth opened—no words. A last glare at Roger, ignoring Jenny, and she left.
“Sure?” Jenny asked as the door shut.
Roger took her hands.
As the evening sun cast a warm glow through the curtains, Roger realized that sometimes, life’s greatest chapters begin with an unexpected turn of the page.
