James lay on his back, the weight of Martha’s head nestled in the hollow of his collarbone. Her leg draped over his, her palm pressed against his chest, right above his heart. He listened to her steady breathing, basking in the quiet joy of the moment. *If only life could always be like this,* he thought, closing his eyes.
A sudden jolt startled him awake. Martha stirred beside him.
“Is it time already?” she mumbled, still groggy.
From the sofa, he couldn’t see the window, but the deepening darkness told him evening had long settled in—time to leave their little sanctuary. And how he hated to go.
They’d met too late, both already bound by duty—to families, to children. They lived from one stolen afternoon to the next, aching for these rare, precious hours alone. James exhaled softly, and Martha lifted her head.
“It’s pitch black!” she gasped, suddenly alert, and sprang out of bed.
Where her hand had rested moments before, his skin grew cold. She was right there, yet loneliness gnawed at his heart already.
“Get up, we’ve got to leave. What am I supposed to tell my husband?”
“The truth,” James said, tossing aside the duvet and standing.
They dressed quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes. He didn’t care what awaited him at home—he’d long steeled himself for it. The lies and secrecy had worn him thin. But Martha fretted, annoyed they’d wasted their time sleeping.
“Say you ran into an old friend from uni, lost track of time,” James suggested.
“He knows all my friends. Might even call them.” Martha refused to look at him.
“Then make someone up—a girl from school, an old acquaintance.”
“And what will you tell your wife?” Martha paused, her blouse half-buttoned, eyes locking onto his.
He stepped closer, cupped her face, and searched her eyes.
“She stopped asking years ago. She knows.” He kissed her, and she melted into his arms.
Darkness thickened around them, wrapping them like a shroud, reluctant to let go.
Martha pushed him back, gently but firmly.
“We’ll never leave if we keep this up.” She hurriedly finished buttoning her blouse.
James wanted to say something, to reassure her. He’d begged her countless times to come clean—to her husband, to his wife—to break free of the cycle. But the children. He adored his ten-year-old Lily, and Martha worried endlessly for her twelve-year-old son, Tom.
When they’d first started, he’d thought it would fizzle out after a few trysts. But it had grown deeper, harder to walk away from. He’d sacrifice everything for her—but would she? Martha always dodged the question, begged for more time. James sighed.
“Don’t be cross. We agreed…” Her voice held a guilty edge.
“You go down to the car—keys are in my jacket. I’ll tidy up.” He folded the sofa bed, stashed the sheets in the cupboard. The landlady never touched them. He scanned the room—no trace left behind.
In the cramped hallway, he dressed quickly, slipped a few prepared banknotes from his pocket, and left them on the side table. A flick of the light switch, and he was out.
The flat—rented for a few clandestine hours—belonged to an elderly widow. A colleague had tipped him off, having used it himself once.
At the arranged time, the landlady would disappear. He never asked where. She needed the money; he and Martha needed the privacy.
A hotel would’ve been easier. But too many familiar faces in those lobbies. And the thought of lying where strangers had been before them… No.
On the stairs, he passed a woman lugging shopping bags. He nodded politely, sidestepping. She didn’t return the greeting, her suspicious gaze boring into his back.
In his own tower block, everyone exchanged hellos, though he barely knew his neighbours. Just how it was. Here, in this run-down walk-up, strangers were eyed with distrust. The elderly were worst of all.
He slid into the car, studying Martha’s shadowed profile.
“Ready?”
In the dim glow of the dashboard, her expression was unreadable.
“Maybe you’re right. We should end the lies. We’re good together. But where would we live? If we… if we stayed.”
The unfinished conversation must’ve weighed on her too.
“We’ll figure it out. Rent somewhere at first.”
“Like this place?” Her voice wavered.
He didn’t answer, focused on navigating the outskirts. Traffic thickened toward the city centre. He pulled over a few streets from her house. She leaned in for one last kiss—fleeting, desperate.
“Tuesday?” she whispered as she drew back.
Her eyes glistened—streetlights, or tears?
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” James said.
Martha stepped out, walking away without looking back, vanishing into the gap between buildings.
He waited, half-hoping she’d change her mind. Then turned the car toward home.
***
The flat was dark, save for a sliver of light under Tom’s door. Martha slipped inside, peeking at her son hunched over homework.
“Hey. Has your dad been home?”
“Hi, Mum. Yeah, came and went.”
“Did he say where? When he’d be back?”
“Nope.” Tom didn’t glance up.
“I’ll make dinner.” She retreated to the kitchen.
They’d met by chance. She was walking home from university when a car pulled up—a man asking directions. The address was hidden in the maze of backstreets; she offered to show him.
Soon, he waited for her outside lectures. She’d climb into his car under the envious whispers of friends.
When he proposed, her mother urged her to say yes.
*He’s stable. Won’t cheat. You’ll want for nothing. Love burns out fast—better security than passion.*
So she agreed. Back then, she thought she might learn to love him. But she couldn’t. When she found out she was pregnant, her first thought was to end it. Then she panicked.
*”A son will cherish you forever. Your husband paid for my eye surgery. Buys my medicine. I’d be crippled without him.”*
All true. But how do you live without love? Comfortable, well-fed—yet hollow. Then, a year ago, she met James. Her starved heart had leapt in answer.
The front door clicked. Her husband shuffled in, silent as he sat at the table.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” she said, back turned.
No reply. After a minute, she glanced over. He sat frozen, staring at nothing.
“Everything alright?”
He flinched, then met her eyes. Something flickered there—fear?
“Is it with you?” he countered.
“I—I ran into someone. An old schoolmate. Lost track of time…”
She could’ve stayed quiet—he hadn’t asked. But the words spilled out.
“I’ll call Tom for dinner.” She fled, relieved by the reprieve. His unease radiated off him.
They ate in silence.
“What’s wrong? Something’s bothering you.”
“Not anymore.” He glanced at her, then away.
*Not anymore?* Her stomach clenched.
Women always know before they *know*. Martha understood—he’d found out. Done something. But what? She barely made it to the bathroom in time.
“You sick?” His voice behind her made her jump. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Must’ve eaten something off.”
He watched her, like he was trying to peel back her thoughts.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” She turned the tap on, splashing her face.
He lingered, then left.
She exhaled, gripping the sink. After rinsing her mouth, she dug her phone from her bag, dialled James. *”The number you have called…”* She rarely phoned him at home. But did it matter now?
Returning, she froze—the news flashed footage of a crumpled car. James’s car. The one she’d stepped out of an hour ago.
*”…collision at the junction of Baker Street and… fatalities confirmed…”*
Martha gasped, air refusing to fill her lungs. Her husband turned at the choked sound.
“You alright?”
He guided her to the sofa, brought water. She sipped, teeth chattering against the glass.
“You’re shaking. Fever?”
She shook her head, meeting his gaze—and knew. *Him.*
“Why so upset? You knew him?”
“Who?”
“The man who died.”
*”Died?”* Her voice cracked.
“Just said on the news.” He shrugged.
*Gone. Never coming back. All that wasted time—I should’ve left sooner.*
“It was you!” She recoiled.
“Me? I’m your husband. You’re delirious—”
“You set it up! You killed him! You weren’t home—I *hate* you—”
“Mum!” Tom burst in.They clung to each other on the sofa, listening to the rain beat against the windows, knowing nothing would ever be the same again.
