Second Wind
Geoffrey wasn’t a handsome man like Cary Grant. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a tractor factory. He didn’t drink—well, maybe a pint at Christmas—and never smoked. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never once strayed.
His daughter had married and moved to Manchester with her husband. No grandchildren yet, but Geoffrey didn’t fret. Children meant noise, responsibility, and toys littering the floor. He preferred quiet evenings with the paper and telly. He was in no rush—he’d have time for grandchildren later.
His wife, Margaret, was perfect in every way: pleasant-looking, well-kept, the house always tidy and inviting, dinner ready when he got home. For special occasions, she’d bake a Victoria sponge or a roast with all the trimmings. In short, life was good.
One evening, he drove home from work, squinting against the low sun, looking forward to a hearty meal and a night in front of the telly.
Geoffrey stepped into the flat, kicked off his shoes in the hallway, and listened. Usually, Margaret would peek out from the kitchen and call that dinner was nearly ready. But today, silence. An unease settled in his chest. He walked into the living room to find Margaret standing by the wardrobe, dresses strewn across the sofa beside an open suitcase.
“Where are you off to? Visiting the daughter in Manchester? Is she pregnant?” Geoffrey asked.
She didn’t look at him, just kept packing.
“Have you gone deaf? I’m shouting, and you’re ignoring me. Where are you going?” His patience frayed.
She scanned the room, checking she hadn’t forgotten anything, then struggled to close the bulging suitcase. The zip threatened to split.
“Could’ve helped instead of standing there asking daft questions.” She blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes.
“I asked where you’re going with all your clothes. Is that really so daft?” Anger simmered beneath his words.
“Where? I’m leaving you,” she shot back.
“Why?” His left brow arched.
“Because I’ve had enough. Now, are you going to help or not?”
“Had enough of what?” He stepped over, pressed down on the case, and yanked the zip shut in one sharp motion.
“Everything. You. Cooking every night. Staring at that bloody telly till my eyes glaze over.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve gone to the theatre, mixed things up a bit.”
“Oh yes, so I could die of embarrassment when you start snoring in the stalls? Day in, day out, life slipping by.” Her voice cracked with frustration.
“That’s just how it goes. Standing still or moving, time passes either way,” he mused.
“Don’t get clever with me. I want something to remember at the end. And what’ve I got? Frying onions? Washing up? You buried in the paper?” Her voice rose sharply.
“You think I’ve nowhere to go but our daughter’s? I’m leaving for someone who sees me—a woman, a queen. Someone who writes me poetry…” Her gaze drifted dreamily upwards.
“And me?” Geoffrey asked softly, realisation dawning.
“You? Carry on as you were. Only now you’ll have to cook, wash, and iron for yourself. You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago—did you even see?” She scoffed, grabbed the suitcase, and dragged it down the hall, wheels leaving tracks on the cream carpet.
As Margaret rustled into her coat, Geoffrey stared at the twin grooves in the carpet. It felt like the suitcase had rolled over his heart, leaving identical marks. Only when the front door slammed did he flinch and look up. Only then did it sink in: she was gone.
He wandered to the kitchen out of habit. The kettle was cold. The fridge held little—a pot of stew, some leftover ham, a couple of tins, eggs, half a bottle of milk. His appetite vanished.
Back in the living room, he sat where the suitcase had been. No desire to read or watch telly. Those things had been comforting when Margaret was there, humming in the kitchen or ironing while half-watching some programme. Now, the silence pressed in like a weight.
He sighed, staring blankly at the dark screen, trying to make sense of it. The emptiness gnawed at him. Pulling on his jacket, he stepped outside. But the hollowness followed.
Passing a café, he saw people laughing inside. The sound drew him in. He ordered a whiskey at the bar. The pain dulled. Another. Then another.
He didn’t remember getting home. Woke fully dressed atop the quilt, head pounding. The room spun when he tried to sit up. Fumbling for his phone, he squinted at the screen—Saturday. Saturday! He staggered to the loo and collapsed back into bed.
Two hours later, he felt human again. A shower revived him. Outside, the sun shone. People bustled past; cars rumbled by. Nausea hit when he passed last night’s café. Hurrying on, he reached the riverside.
A woman smiled as she approached. He glanced around—no one else nearby. She was smiling at *him*.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said, falling into step beside him.
“Mhm,” Geoffrey grunted. She stopped, waiting for more.
“Erm… Sorry, do I know you? I’m a bit scrambled today.”
“Something wrong?” Her eyes were kind.
“Mhm. Wife left me. For a poet. Writes her verses, apparently.” He exhaled sharply. “Not my strong suit.”
“You look peaky. Sweating, too.” She gestured to a bench, but they were all taken.
“Wife’s gone. Nothing worse. Drank too much last night. Not that I usually…” He wiped his brow.
“You should rest. Have some strong tea. I’ll walk you home.”
En route, she lamented her own troubles—her son married and distant, her daughter’s fiancé unwelcome.
“You said you didn’t know me. I work in accounts at the factory. That you don’t remember? Good sign. Means you were a faithful husband.”
“Faithful? Then why’d she leave? Fancy a cuppa? Place is dead quiet now.” He nodded toward his flat.
“Bit soon, isn’t it? Wife just left, and me waltzing in… Another time.” She turned to go.
“Then I’m not going back either.” His shoulders slumped.
After a pause, she took his arm. “Come on.”
Over tea, they talked. It felt familiar, as if he’d known her long ago.
“Leaving already?” he asked when she stood.
“Should’ve gone hours ago. You need sleep. You’re nodding off.”
At the door, he asked for her number. The moment she left, he crashed into bed. When he woke, the world felt less bleak. He scraped together yesterday’s sandwiches, boiled the kettle, and rang her.
“Er… Didn’t catch your name—or forgot… Emily? Lovely name. Fancy a stroll? Brilliant. Riverside in an hour? Cheers.”
He buttoned a fresh shirt, humming. Life had colour again.
After work, he’d wait for Emily by the factory gates, driving her home. Often, they’d eat out or cook together at his place, chatting as she stirred pots.
One evening, he said, “We’re acting like kids, aren’t we? Cinema, walks… I’ve the space. Why put up with that son-in-law? Move in with me.”
“Is that a proposal?” She didn’t sound surprised.
“Yes. Though, technically, I’m still married. But that’s just paperwork.”
And she stayed. He adored her—or rather, who he became with her. A second wind. He’d rush home at six, shop for groceries, revel in kitchen chatter. In weeks, they’d talked more than he and Margaret had in years.
Then, one dinnertime, the lock clicked. “*Margaret.*” Cold sweat prickled his neck.
“Thought you’d be starving, half-dead. Instead, you’ve company. Quick work,” Margaret said, electricity crackling in the air.
“You left first,” Emily said calmly.
“And you are?” Margaret’s gaze swept over her.
“And *you* are?” Emily stood, chin lifted.
Geoffrey sat frozen. The kitchen hummed with tension. Margaret, familiar yet alien; Emily, his rebirth.
“Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.
Her eyes held wifely authority; Emily’s, fear and fragile hope.
“If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you in a heartbeat. But Emily… She made me believe I could be happy again. If it’s the flat you want, we’ll sell.” He stood.
Margaret’s lips parted, but no words came. With a final glare—ignoring Emily—she left.
“Sure about this?” Emily asked as the door shut.
Geoffrey took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re my future. If youThey married quietly six months later, and though life was never perfect, Geoffrey found himself smiling more often than not, grateful for his unexpected second chance.
