“The kids are grown, and the moment she retired, she upped and left me—can you believe it?” grumbled the grey-haired man in a flat cap to his chess partner.
Autumn had just begun scattering its golden leaves across the courtyard. The weather was splendid, the air crisp and invigorating.
It had become a habit—every summer, the pensioners would gather in the park near their block of flats. They claimed a cosy nook with three benches close together and met there all season once the heat faded.
Come winter, the tradition held steady. The same silver-haired men still ventured out, bundled up, to pass the time together.
“Ran off, did she? Maybe it wasn’t her—maybe it’s you!” chuckled the chess opponent across from him. “A good man’s wife doesn’t just leave.”
Albert had been through the same thing years ago, so he understood where the roots of this “escape” might lie.
The man in the cap lifted his grey eyes—same shade as his hair—and gave a wry smile.
“Checkmate, Albert. As for the wife—she did it to spite me! She knows I can’t manage without her—wanted to teach me a lesson.”
Before she left, she’d said:
“I’m sick of waiting on you, George! Can’t do a thing without me—well, off I go. Let’s see how you manage now.”
Didn’t even say where she was headed…
“Alright then, George—how’s it been?” Albert asked, remembering his own ordeal.
“Miserable… No, worse—lonely! First night, I thought I’d celebrate my freedom. Bought a bottle of whisky, put it in the fridge… didn’t even bother opening it.”
No one scolds me for having a drink. No noise, no fuss. Just… quiet. Never fancied it less. The melancholy hit me like a ton of bricks.
Albert laughed. He got it. Lived it himself. Exactly as George described.
George stared at the chessboard, lost in thought. The men standing nearby watched with a mix of concern and sympathy.
No one wanted to be left alone at their age.
Sure, there were bumps in the road—but that’s marriage. Two halves making a whole.
“Go on, call her. Tell her you’ve seen the light,” suggested the youngest of the group.
George waved him off.
“Who knows what she even wants?!”
“Y’know, when I was a lad, I used to herd goats back in the village,” piped up George’s neighbour from the fifth floor. “If one got stubborn, I’d tempt it back with a carrot. So—you tempt yours! The rest will sort itself.”
“Tempt her with what?” George scoffed. “She’s got everything—I’ve got to get this just right.”
“Tell you what—I’ll ring her,” offered the neighbor from downstairs. “Say I’ve been round five times, and no one answers. Sound good?”
George brightened. “Brilliant! She’ll come running, thinking something’s happened. And I’ll be ready—flowers, a cake, the works!”
With that, the men dispersed.
The next day, as planned, the neighbour rang George’s wife, Margaret, spinning a tale of unanswered knocks and eerie silence. Maybe something’s wrong—best come quick.
Meanwhile, George wasted no time. He dashed to the shops first thing, grabbing treats, then headed to the florist for three roses.
“Blimey—what a rush!” he muttered, catching his breath.
Still, apologising in pyjamas wouldn’t do. He changed into his grey suit—the one Margaret bought him for funerals—and set the table.
Everything was ready: champagne chilling, kettle boiling, cake waiting in the fridge. He sat. And waited.
Bloody hot in this suit. But no—he had to look his best for Margaret.
Kept checking the window. No sign of her.
Finally, he grabbed the roses (one already drooping, just his luck) and decided to greet her properly. Took a sip of whisky to steady his nerves.
An hour later, he was still on the sofa, flowers clutched, nodding off.
Careful not to crease the suit, he lay down, roses resting on his chest—just in case.
Margaret arrived late that evening—five hours by train from her sister’s, then a taxi.
Approaching their building, she froze. No lights on in their flat.
Her stomach dropped. She hurried inside.
The flat was silent—no George in sight.
“Lord, no—please…”
She flicked the hall light on, stepped into the living room—and nearly collapsed.
There he was. On the sofa. In his suit. Two wilted roses in his hands.
She sank to her knees, head bowed. Then the tears came.
“Margaret! You’re back!” George grinned, holding out the flowers.
“You’re alive!” she shrieked. “Getting pissed without me, are you? I leave for ONE WEEK—this is what happens?!”
She carried on scolding, but George just sat there, smiling.
How lovely, he thought. How warm the flat feels now. My runaway’s home—carrots work after all.
“Smirking, are you?” Margaret huffed.
“I love you, Maggie—so much I’ll never let you go,” he said softly.
That shut her up.
“This week… I understood. Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything—just stay.”
“And no more drinking?”
“Didn’t touch a drop till today—just a sip to calm down.”
“Hmph.” She marched into the kitchen and flicked the light on.
A gasp.
“Good carrot,” George mused. Now—keep surprising her every day, and she’ll never run again.
