**Diary Entry**
My phone woke me—bloody ex-husband. Why did I forget to mute it? Instead of “Hello,” I yawned loud enough for him to hear. He rambled endless apologies, droning about the weather, work, some telly nonsense. Pacing himself, leading to something. I didn’t rush him, didn’t reply. Just nodded now and then, as if he could see.
Maybe he could. Fifteen years of marriage grants eerie intuition. I stumbled to the kitchen in just knickers, put him on speaker, and dumped the phone on the table. The fridge yawned back—empty, grimy shelves, one bottle of wine and a triangle of plastic-wrapped cheese.
“How’s Emily?”
My daughter’s name hooked me. “You didn’t call her?”
“Did,” he rushed, “last Thursday. Said she’s grand. Blooming, laughing—even mentioned you’re off for a week. Rich now, are you? Beach holiday? What about your students? Kicked ’em out for break?”
I swigged straight from the bottle, pressed the phone to my ear so the mic wouldn’t catch the glass clinking. Gulped. Mustered a playful grin.
“God, I need this. A week under palms, toes in the sea. Not soon, though—month to go. Jealous?”
“Course,” pause, “not.” Falling into the old rhythm.
“I’ll bring you,” pause, “nothing.” I relaxed. “What d’you want, then?”
“Awkward, but—skint till payday. Could you spare a hundred quid? Unplanned expenses…”
“Mmm.” I sliced cheese, let it melt on my tongue like fudge. “What sort of expenses?”
“Met someone. A woman. Proper nice.”
Unearned jealousy clawed my throat. “Ask *her*, then!” Memory flashed: him at twenty, lanky, fringe split down his face like a crow’s wing, smirking with that sharp canine. Beside him—not me, but some tart in a mini-skirt and red lipstick.
“Luv, what’s wrong?” His voice softened, achingly familiar. My eyes prickled. Nearly wept.
“Nothing. Just tired. I’ll transfer it. Have a good one.”
Mid-transfer, Karsten texted: *Morning, darling! Fancy a lakeside picnic? I’ll fetch you at 3.*
“Ugh, not you too!” Rage punched out tears. Finally poured wine, chewed cheese. Stood before the hallway mirror, trailing fingers where lace met skin—dared not touch further. The tiny knot, barely a pimple, hidden where razors glide blind. Still there. Unchanged. Showered savagely, double-shampooed, masked, blow-dried. Laptop on. Social media pings. Pulled on a tee.
First message: *Hi! Want to learn German from scratch. Availability? Payment options?* Muscle memory replied. Routine fortified. Clicked his profile—saw exhaustion, loneliness. Twinge. *How many lessons weekly? Fair warning: no slots till the 10th. Might be never. I could die*, I typed, then backspaced to *”no slots.”*
He replied fast: *Thrice weekly. Flexible—work from home. Can adapt.*
*Today, 5pm Berlin time?*
*Perfect.*
Emily rang as I scraped the last of “hangover soup” (our old joke).
“Mum? You okay?”
“Grand. Eating. You’re distracting me.” Fear muddled my voice.
“Off to the beach. Dad called. Said you seemed off…” Traffic hummed behind her.
“I’ve ‘seemed off’ to him for five years.”
“Sarcasm means you’re fine. Right?”
“Miss you, pet. How’s things?”
“Miss you too!”
We chatted drivel—met her mates, Tube to Brighton, hunted sunbeds. Spanish sun, sea-salt air. Hung up lighter. She, forward. Me, on a ledge. But wrapped in gold-lit memory. Checked the clock. Nearly five. Still sun-drunk, I logged on—plunged into the video call like an icy lake.
His eyes. First dive. Gutted me. Stammered grammar, apologised needlessly. Couldn’t look up, couldn’t look away. When the forty-five minutes bled out, I crumpled into sobs. Rang Katy.
“No lectures—I’m in love.”
“Ooh! Who? What about Karsten?”
“Katy, *what* Karsten? I—” Realised I didn’t even know his name. Just the eyes. “Who’s the lucky man?” She prodded.
“Just met. My German student. Didn’t think I could feel this anymore. I—” Words tumbled, trusting she’d catch them.
Katy—plump, settled, married forever—exhaled smoke. “I’m chuffed for you, Luv! Truly. After the divorce, then Em leaving… You went robotic. Barely left the flat. Thought Karsten might help. He’s decent. But just ‘maintenance,’ yeah?”
“Yeah.” Giddiness fizzed.
“You sound different. Proper smitten.” Then, unwittingly, she shattered it. “When do I meet him?”
“Oh—call waiting! Later!” I hung up, scrubbed the fridge, raced through chores till Wednesday, 5pm Berlin time. Tossed all night—water runs, window open-shut, spitting into the dark like a teen. Didn’t once think of the tiny killer with its gentle name: Melanoma. Dawn brought his message: *Can’t wait till Wednesday. Free today?*
—
His name was Mark. Cue mental chariots, yellow dust, swords—cliché. I didn’t ask where he lived. Marital status? Taboo. Terrified to scare this digital-alive feeling that made me want to *live*.
“Why German? Work?” I asked, stifling the molten ball in my chest.
“No.” He held my gaze. “Saw your course ad. Your face. Thought you needed saving.”
“My knight?” I quipped, reflexively sardonic.
“Suppose.” He shrugged.
“I’ll call you Knight. Mind?” Phone buzzed. “Oops—gotta go!” Dropped the call, bolted up. “This doesn’t happen!” Whispered, then screamed it. Needed air. Berlin’s false autumn—trees yellowing prematurely. Shops arctic. Bought soup ingredients meticulously: scarlet peppers, grainy cottage cheese, cukes, searing salami. Hauled the bulging bag home, shoulder aching deliciously. Only then, pot simmering, checked messages.
*Sorry if I offended. I’m rubbish with people. Forgive me.*
“Nothing to forgive. This is… strange. *I’m* strange. Not used to honesty. To naming things.”
“Me neither. But it happens.”
“Making soup. Fancy some?”
“Love to. Call soon?”
“Five mins.”
I touched up my lips. The screen lit—plunged into the abyss. Over potato-peeling, we slid to first names. Discussed films, books. Felt him elbow-close in my tiny kitchen. Only when admiring broth swirls did we remember: we weren’t *here*. The air stilled.
“Bon appétit.”
“Ta. Message tomorrow.” Frosty. Didn’t eat. Bought wine, drank in dark, hid my phone, mourned. Just to wake parched to: *Morning! Sleep well?* His texts fuelled my day. Till the 18th. Didn’t say goodbye on the 17th. Why bother?
The cab ride dragged. Ex rang first: “Luv, you alright?”
“Brilliant!” (*He bloody knows.*) Then Katy. Pancake scent wafted through the car. Swallowed spit. Again: “Luv, I’m uneasy. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
Emily called as I paid the hospital fare: “Mum! Miss you. Can I visit?”
“No, pet! Sorry—another call.”
—
Inside: light, no fear. Half the ground floor a café. Green walls. Doors with plaques. I walked steady, holding my overnight bag. Four lifts. Mine arrived first. A plump woman pushed a pram out, trailed by a bald girl in a headscarf. The girl beamed up at me, gap-toothed. I squeezed into the third-floor corridor. A cubby with locker-room pegs. A wisp of a nurse helped me into a back-tie gown. Left me. Returned with a twin. Chattered, guided me to theatre. Fast—before I could bolt. Needle in hand, weight check, then the mask. Out.
Woke alone. A wall-window framed construction workers—ants on a path. Watched them three days, waiting to die. Didn’t. Discharged.
—
Taxi ride home, hand pressed to bandaged groin. Blind-crone shuffle to my door. Bumped into a man at the entrance. Felt hisShe looked up into his eyes—the same ones that had gutted her through a screen—and whispered, “This *does* happen.”
