That Can’t Be.
Her ex-husband’s phone call jolted her awake. Why had she forgotten to mute it? Instead of “Hello,” she yawned—let him know he’d woken her. He droned on, apologizing endlessly, filling the silence with chatter about the weather, work, news from the telly—setting the stage for something. Laura didn’t rush him, didn’t reply. Sometimes she nodded, as if he could see.
Maybe he could. Fifteen years of marriage had granted him unnatural perception. She shuffled to the kitchen in just her knickers, switched the call to speaker, dropped the phone on the table, and opened the fridge. Its empty white shelves, long unwashed, radiated resentment. A bottle of wine stood on the door, wedged beside a triangle of plastic-wrapped supermarket cheese.
“How’s Annie?”
Her daughter’s name forced a reaction:
“Haven’t you called her?”
“I have,” he said quickly. “We talked Thursday. Said she’s doing great. ‘Blooming and booming,’” he chuckled. “Also mentioned you’re disappearing for a week—off on holiday? Come into some money, have you? Where to? And what about your students? Sent ’em packing?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to her ear so the sensitive mic wouldn’t catch the clink of glass as her trembling hand set it down. Gulped, steadied herself, forced a playful grin into her voice:
“Had enough. I deserve a week under palm trees by the sea. Not soon, though. Got a month to go. Jealous?”
“Course not,” he paused. “Well, maybe a bit.” Same old game.
“I’ll bring you back… nothing.” Laura relaxed. “So what did you want?”
“Erm… hate to ask, but I’m a bit skint. Could you lend me eighty quid? Just till payday. Unexpected expenses…”
“Mmm.” She sliced a piece of cheese, placed it on her tongue like a sweet. “What expenses?”
“Met a woman. Lovely, she is. Really lovely.”
Unjustified, illogical jealousy clawed at Laura’s throat:
“Ask *her* for money, then!” A memory flashed: Her then-future husband twenty years ago—tall, scrawny, long fringe splitting his face like a chalk line, grinning lopsided with one sharp canine. Beside him, inexplicably, stood some tart in a miniskirt and red lipstick.
“Laur, what’s wrong?” His voice shifted—familiar, tender. The concern pricked her eyes. She was about to cry.
“Nothing. Just tired. Sorry. I’ll transfer it now. Have a good day.”
As she jabbed at her banking app, a message from Charles popped up:
“Morning, love! Glorious day. Fancy a picnic by the lake? Could pick you up at three.”
“You too? Sod off, the lot of you!” Anger punched stupid tears free. Finally poured wine into a glass, gulped, chewed the cheese. Stood before the full-length hallway mirror, tracing the border where black lace met pale skin—afraid to touch further, to the tiny knot, no bigger than a pimple, nestled where no one looked. Still there.
Then the shower—scrubbing angrily till red, shampoo twice, face mask, eye patches, blow-dry. The laptop chimed with notifications. Pulled on a T-shirt.
Opened the first message:
“Hello! I’d like to learn German from scratch. Do you have availability? Payment options?”
Her hands knew the script. Routine fortified her. Replying, she accidentally clicked his profile—saw exhaustion and loneliness. Her stomach dropped.
“How many lessons per week? And fair warning—no sessions from the 1st to the 10th. Might never again, because I’ll be dead,” she typed, then erased to just “unavailable.”
He replied instantly:
“Three times weekly. Very flexible—work from home. Can adapt.”
“Today at five, Berlin time?”
“Perfect.”
Annie called as she finished the last of her takeaway pho. They used to call it “hangover soup.”
“Mum? You okay?”
“Brilliant. Eating,” she mumbled, afraid.
“We’re off to the beach. Dad called. He’s proper cheesed off with you…” The hum of an unfamiliar city, traffic, worry.
“He’s been cheesed off for five years.”
“If you’re snarking, you’re fine. Right?”
“Darling, how are you? Miss you.”
“Miss you too!”
They chatted nonsense—met friends via phone, rode the Tube to Brighton Beach, hunted for a spot. Spanish sun broke through, waves lapped. The sea drowned the bad. Hung up. Parted. One forward, one to the brink. But the memory—light and golden—lingered.
Laura checked the clock. Nearly five. Still there, glittering by her daughter, she mechanically opened the laptop. Plunged into the video call like icy water. That student—the one who called himself “flexible.”
His *eyes*. That was the first dive. Deep, gut-wrenching. Pain, spasm. She babbled about German grammar, apologized without knowing why. Couldn’t look up, couldn’t look away. When the forty-five minutes ended, she slumped back and finally wept. Called her mate:
“No lectures—I’ve fallen in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Charles?”
“Kate! What *about* Charles?” Realized she didn’t even know the student’s name. If he’d said it, she’d missed it. Only the eyes remained. “Who’ve you fallen for, then?” Kate pressed.
“Just met. My German student. I— God, it’s been so long since I felt anything. Thought I couldn’t, but now…” She rambled, hoping Kate would understand.
Kate—plump mum of four, married once and forever—exhaled smoke into the phone, voice warm:
“Stepping onto the balcony… I’m chuffed for you! Truly, Laur! After the divorce, then Annie leaving… You’d turned robotic. Never left the house. Thought Charles might help. He’s decent. But just ‘for health,’ yeah?”
“Yeah.” Irrational joy fizzed in Laura.
“Now your voice is different. Introduce me?” Kate shattered the spell.
“Oh—phone’s ringing. Chat later!” Laura hung up. Scrubbed the fridge, busied herself—anything to speed time till Wednesday, five p.m. Berlin time.
That night, she floated in half-sleep—gulped water, opened windows, spat once into the inky courtyard, feeling fifteen again. Never once remembered the tiny killer with the gentle name: Melanoma.
Morning. A drowsy message:
“Remember Wednesday, but can’t wait. Free today?”
×××
His name was Mark. Her mind conjured chariots, yellow dust, swords—clichés she refused to entertain. Didn’t ask where he was from, where he lived. Marital status? Taboo, though she didn’t care. Terrified to scare this away—unreal, digital, yet alive. It made her *want* to live.
“Why learn German? For work?” She asked to quell the molten ball inside.
“No.” He looked straight at her. “Saw your face on the course ad. Thought you needed saving.”
“So you’re a knight?” Sarcasm tinted her reflex reply.
“Suppose so.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Mind? And—oh, sorry, phone’s ringing!” She ended the call, leapt up. “That can’t be!” She whispered, then shouted: “*That can’t be!*”
Wanted to leave. London’s heat yellowed trees prematurely—neither summer nor autumn. The supermarket’s Arctic chill. She selected meat for soup, scarlet peppers, crumbly white cheese, cucumbers, her favourite spicy salami. The bag weighed her down, shoulder aching—a forgotten fatigue.
Home, pot on the stove, she checked her messages:
“Sorry if I offended you. I’m rubbish with people. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. This is all… strange. *I’m* sorry. I’m unused to—no, unaccustomed to honesty. Naming things.”
“Me too. But it happens.”
“Cooking soup tonight. Fancy some?”
“Love to. Call you?”
“Five minutes. Okay?”
She fixed her hair, swiped on lipstick. The screen lit—she stepped into the abyss.
Peeling potatoes, they switched to first names. Discussed films, books, elbows bumping in her tiny kitchen. Only at the end, admiring soup swirls, did they remember: they weren’t together.
“Enjoy!”
“Ta! Message tomorrow,” she said icily.
Ate nothing. Bought wine, drank in darkness, hid her phone, died. All to wake dry-mouthed to:
“Morning! Sleep well?”
Messages fuelled her till the 17th. On the 18th, she didnAnd when she finally turned the key in her flat’s door, she found him standing there, holding a pot of soup, smiling like he’d known her forever.
