I realised my former husband was having an affair because he began sweeping the street.
It sounds ludicrous, I know, and yet, thats exactly how it happened. He was an electrician, working from home, his workshop set up in our garage, always busy with wires, gadgets, and the steady comings and goings of customers. He was never one for household choresnot out of some deep principle, but simply because he didnt like them. Any spare time he had, hed spend relaxingwatching the telly, having a pint with friends at the pub, perhaps firing up the grill in the garden. He was a laid-back soul, not much for parties, never aggressive, not the type to arouse suspicions.
We lived on a country lanewide and shaded by old oaks and chestnuts. There were leaves everywhere, with mud or dust depending on the weather. Keeping the path tidy was nearly a daily task. It was usually me out there at dawn, sweeping as breakfast sizzled in the pan.
One day, a new neighbour moved into the house next doora simple thing in our little village, as that house was often let to tenants, the occupants changing every so often.
A few months into her stay, my husband started saying to me, Dont worry, love, Ill sweep today. At first I was touched. I used the time to catch up on other choreswashing up, scrubbing the loo, organising the house. I didnt watch him; I had every reason to trust.
Then, it became a daily ritual. Always at precisely the same time7 oclock, not a minute earlier or later. I began to notice because, before this, he never kept to a particular time except when it came to work. One morning, curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced out the kitchen window.
There he was, broom in hand, not sweeping at all, but talking. Smiling. And opposite him, the new neighbour. Coincidence, I told myself. But it happened the following morning. And again. Each time he went out, so did she, as though theyd arranged it.
I began to keep an eye out, and it wasnt just mornings. One Saturday, he told me hed pop out for a pint with the ladsno surprise there. But when he left, a strange unease washed over me. I looked outside and saw the neighbour step out at the very same moment. She called out, Evening, neighbour! Have a lovely night. He replied cheerily, and she added, What a coincidence, Im heading that way too. Off they went, arm in arm into the dusk.
The next weekend, he claimed he was off to play footballsomething he almost never did. He left, and, minutes later, I watched her follow, chatting on her mobile, strolling in the same direction.
I had no proof. No messages, no photographs, nothing. Only routines, timings, patterns. Coincidences that weren’t coincidences anymore.
One day, I confronted himnot with a question, but with certainty: I know youre seeing the neighbour. He looked startled and, at first, denied it. But I pressed on, Ive seen the two of you. Every single day. Dont lie to me. He fell silent, eyes down. Yes, he said at last. Im with her. Im in love.
I told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave the house. There were no children, nothing to negotiate. And heres the twist of fatehe moved in right next door, with her.
They didnt last long, perhaps two months before leaving. No one ever did find out exactly what happened. They slipped out of the village one night, and I never heard another word about either of themnot from the neighbours, nor the family tongues wagging over tea. I didnt want to know any more. The past had folded itself up, silent and complete.
