Years of Solitude: A Six-Year Trial Without the One She Loved.
Emily felt utterly exhausted. She had been alone for six long years since her husband left her. Her daughter had married the year before and moved to another city.
At just forty-two, Emily was in the prime of her lifea second youth. She was an excellent homemaker, a brilliant cook; her pickled cucumbers and tomatoes were called masterpieces. But what was the point of making them now? Rows of empty jars gathered dust on the balcony.
“Am I really going to waste away alone, looking like this?” Emily would lament to her friends. Theyd always reply, “No! Find a man! There are plenty of single men out there.”
One of them suggested she try the agency *Best Man*. Emily thought it absurdalmost shamefulto resort to an agency. But then again, forty-two was a number that nagged at her. The antique grandmother clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each chime a reminder of time slipping away.
So, she went. A pleasant woman in strawberry-framed glasses greeted her.
“Only the finest gentlemen here,” she said. “Lets browse the database togethertake a seat!”
“Yes, theyre all handsome,” Emily said with a faint smile. “But how do I know if hes the one?”
“Everythings arranged,” the woman assured her. “We offer a one-week trial. Enough time to decideyes or no. If its not a match, well find you another.”
“A trial?”
“A husband.”
“How does that work?”
“Simple! He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not playing coythis is business. No maniacs or lunatics here.”
The idea suddenly appealed to Emily. Together with the woman, she picked five candidates. She paid a modest fee and hurried home. The first would arrive that very evening.
Emily slipped into a green dressthe colour of hopeand put on diamond earrings she hadnt worn in years.
*Ding-dong.*
She peered through the peephole first. Roses. A quiet gasp escaped her lips. She opened the door. The man was elegant, just like his photo.
They sat at the table, where Emily had laid out a feast. She placed the roses in the centre, stealing glances at her charming guest. *This is it,* she thought. *No need for the others. Him.*
They began with the salad. The prospective husband frowned. “Too much vinegar.” Emily forced a smile, served him roast pork. He chewed reluctantly. “Tough.” Nothing pleased him. In her nervousness, shed forgotten the wine shed carefully selected. She poured it. “To new beginnings!”
He sniffed the glass, took a sip. “Cheap stuff.” Then he stood. “Lets see how you live.”
Emily snatched the roses and thrust them at him. “I dont even like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she wept quietly. It hurt. But four more meetings awaited.
The next evening, the second candidate arrived reeking of whiskey. “Alright, love?” he boomed.
“Have you been celebrating already?” Emily asked.
He grinned. “Blimey, dont start! Got a telly? The match is onManchester United versus Liverpool. Well sort everything while we watch.”
Emily stiffened. “Watch it at home.”
Again, she cried alone.
The third man was no lookerworn-out jacket, unkempt nails, muddy boots. Emily considered how to politely dismiss him but fed him first. He ate ravenously, praising her cooking. She almost blushed. Then she brought out the pickled cucumbers.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “Best Ive ever had!”
Just then, the grandmother clock chimed. He perked up. “Whats that racket?” He climbed onto a stool, inspecting it. “Needs fixing. Got any tools?”
Soon, the clock ticked cleanlyits chime soft and clear. Emilys heart swelled. A sign. This manrough but skilledshould be hers. So what if his boots were dirty? He was kind, capable. And third times the charm.
That night, she prepared carefullyfresh sheets, roses (she did love them, after all). When she stepped out of the bath, he was already snoring, fully dressed. She watched him fondly. “Poor thing, worn out.” She slipped under the covers beside him.
Then the nightmare began. He snoredloudly, masterfully, endlessly. Emily muffled herself with a pillow, then him, even flipped him over. Nothing worked. She endured the night in agony.
Morning came. He strode into the kitchen where a haggard Emily sat. “Right then. When should I move my things in?”
She shook her head. “No. Youre lovely, but… no.”
The fourth candidate, a grizzled man, reminded her of an old adventure film hero. She even let him smoke in the kitchen. He exhaled, eyeing her. “Listen, Emily, lets be clear. Im a free man. Love fishing, lads trips. Hate being nagged*Where are you?* Got it?”
She watched him tap ash into her orchid pot. “Do you see other women too?”
He smirked. “Why not? Freedom, love. A mans got needs.”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed. She felt drained, lifeless. The dishes could wait.
Morning light streamed through the curtains. Birds chirped happily. For the first time in days, Emily felt at peace. Saturday. No rush, no demands. No snoring, no smoke. Dishes? Shed wash them later. Peace and freedom.
Then the phone rang.
“Emily! *Best Man* calling. Youve got one more candidate todayremember? Hes perfect, absolutely the one!”
She nearly shouted into the receiver. “Take me off your list! Delete me! The best man is *no* man!”
Laughing, she flung the curtains wide.
