Did the washing up againthree days worth of plates piled high in the sink. There wasnt even a clean mug left for tea. I waited and waited… What was I supposed to do? Arriving home from the office, famished, irritated, worn out. Yet I had to wash it all first, or else Id have nothing to eat off.
There wasnt much to eat either. I just flicked the kettle on and filled a saucepan with water. At least I could boil a couple of sausages. Or just have them plain, anything to quiet the hunger. Never imagined Id find myself like this… And I remembered that delicious leek and potato soup Margaret used to make. Oh, for a bowl of that now…
Her pies were something elsesteak and kidney, apple, you name it. And her puff pastry, always stuffed with something wonderful. The roast ribs, her signature dish. And what order! What pristine cleanliness in the flat! After a long day, Id open the door and everything gleamed. There was a freshness in the air. Now…
Why did I never appreciate it? To me, it seemed as if Margaret wanted nothing more from life than to do the washing and cook.
One day, I saw Lucy. Stunning, in a short skirt and high heels, just stepping out of the beauty parlour. Perfectly groomed, unique. At the time, I thought…
I didnt frequent salons, never spent much on hair, and disliked dyeing mine. Margaret hadnt much interest in fashion shops either. Though she was as slender and pretty as any. She simply didnt care for all the feminine fuss. Was always in jeans and trainers. Shed dash to buy bread or whizz about the place tidying up.
Im in love with someone else, I told Margaret when I got home. Im leaving you. I dont want to lie anymore.
She stood whipping cream for the Victoria sponge, never turning round. And I missed the tears that silently slipped down her cheeks…
Id grown weary of seeing a housekeeper beside me, rather than a wife. That, I suppose, is what drew me to Lucy. Now I handle the washing up, the floors, the vacuuming. I havent mastered cooking yet, and sometimes, late at night, I dream of Margarets home-baked pies…
Lucys got a new manicure, so she wont do the dishes. She lounges on the sofa, leafing through a glossy magazine, making plans to have her hair done at the salon. Dresses are scattered across the floor, and Ive nearly tripped over her heels twice already. She cant decide what to wear. The wine glass in the hallwaynever cleared away from yesterdaystill sits there.
Why did I swap my wife for such idleness? Its a miserable existence. Should I make more pasta? My stomachs grumbling…
