It was our last dinner, Poppy whispered, sliding a divorce petition across the kitchen table.
Michael, are you even listening to me? she demanded, voice echoing through the cramped aisles of the Tesco.
I’m listening, I’m listening. We’ll grab some cottage cheese, no problem, he muttered, cheeks flushing as shoppers turned their heads.
It’s not about the cheese! I asked when you last cared about my life! Poppy stood in the centre of the store, basket swinging, her words too loud for the fluorescent hum.
Poppy, let’s talk at home. People are watching, Michael winced, embarrassed.
Let them hear! Maybe then you’ll finally notice me! she shouted, eyes wide.
What are you on about? he asked, bewildered.
That you never see me! I could talk all day and youd just nod while glued to your phone! she snapped.
Michael exhaled heavily. It was happening again. Lately Poppy had become jittery, nitpicking, ready to explode over a misplaced word or a stray glance.
Lena I mean, Poppy I’m exhausted at work. I get home, I just want to relax. That’s normal, he tried to explain.
Relax? You’ve been relaxing for twenty years of our marriage! she retorted.
That’s absurd, Michael replied, setting his basket down.
Fine, you can shop yourself. I’m done, Poppy said, turning toward the exit. Michael stared after her, then at the basket, then back at his wife. Should he chase? Should he let the tension cool?
He chose not to follow. He paid for the groceries, slipped out, and drove home. Poppy was already in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with robotic precision.
Here, I bought everything you wanted, Michael said, placing the bags on the counter.
She nodded without looking up, her eyes fixed on the cutting board. Dinner, she said simply.
Whats for dinner? Michael tried, hoping for a normal conversation.
Your favourite dishes, she replied, the words floating like a distant melody.
He was surprised. After a fight, she was preparing his favourite food? Usually she would disappear for a week. So were made up? he asked.
She finally lifted her gaze. In her eyes swam a strange tideno anger, no resentment, just a lingering melancholy.
Go rest. Dinner will be ready in an hour, she said.
Michael drifted into the living room, turned on the television, and watched his beloved football team. He tried to focus on the match, but his mind kept looping back to Poppys weary smile.
He remembered their first meeting. He was twentythree, she twenty, a shy librarian at the British Library. He had stepped in looking for a reference book, saw her behind the deskdelicate, long blond hair, round glasses. He fell instantly.
He courted her with persistent charm, leaving flowers on the reading tables, slipping notes into the return slot. She had rebuffed him at first, saying she was too busy with studies and work, but he kept trying until she finally agreed to a coffee.
A year later they married in a modest ceremony, their savings thin, living with his parents while they scraped together enough for a tiny flat in a council estate on the outskirts of Manchester. They were happy, albeit childlessshe could not conceive, and after a period of grief they settled for the quiet companionship they could afford.
Then, about a year ago, Poppy grew quiet, lost in thought. He blamed long hours, workplace stress, and gave her space, perhaps too much.
One evening she called him to dinner. The table was laid out with a crisp white cloth, candles flickering, a roast chicken, creamy mash, a fresh garden salad, and a cherry tart.
It looks like a restaurant, Michael whistled.
Sit, Poppy gestured.
He sat, and she served him a glass of homemade compote. She remained silent, eyes rimmed red as if she had wept.
Whats wrong? he asked, the fork hovering.
Eat first, well talk later, she replied, her voice a thin veil.
He noticed the pale hue of her skin, the shadows under her eyes. Poppy, whats happening?
She placed a plain envelope on the table. This was our last dinner, she said softly.
He opened it, his hands trembling. Inside lay a divorce petition, freshinked.
Is this a joke? he asked, heart pounding.
No, she said. I filed this this morning. This copy is for you.
Are you mad? he demanded, rising.
Its not madness, she smiled bitterly. Its clarity. Weve been strangers for five years now.
What do you mean? he sputtered.
You dont even see me. You come home, eat, plop in front of the TV, spend weekends fishing with the lads. When was the last time you truly complimented me? When did we really talk?
We talk every day, he protested.
About groceries, about the news. Not about each other. Its empty noise.
He sank back into his chair, mind swirling like fog over the Thames. But I work, I provide. Isnt that enough?
Providing isnt loving. I want a husband, not a cashmachine. I want attention, interest, genuine curiosity about my day, walks together, an embrace for no reason.
I do hug you, he said.
When was the last time? she asked.
He searched his memorymonths, perhaps yearsand found nothing.
Youre right, she said. We live like flatmates, polite but alien.
The first ten years were good. The last ten Ive been dying of loneliness, right next to you, in the same bed, she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Why didnt you tell me earlier? he pleaded.
I told you a thousand times! I asked for a holiday togetheryou went fishing with the boys. I suggested a filmyou chose the match. I invited you to an art exhibityou were always busy, she listed, voice trembling.
He stared at the ceiling, remembering each missed moment. He had thought her words were fleeting, not urgent.
Did you notice my new hair? she asked suddenly.
He blinked. Youre still the darkbrown hair, shoulderlength.
I dyed it blonde three months ago. You didnt notice even when your mother asked why Id changed colour, she said, a sting in each syllable.
He felt heat rise to his face. He had indeed missed it.
What about the dress I bought two weeks ago? Worn three times, never commented on, she continued.
Im clueless about womens clothes, he admitted weakly.
Its not about the dress, its that you dont care! I could walk in a sack and youd never see me, she whispered, wandering the kitchen.
She stopped, eyes distant. A month ago I told you about a raise at work, you nodded and asked where the remote was, she said.
He had no recollection.
I realised then I was dead to you. I became part of the décor, invisible, she confessed.
Poppy, Im sorry, he whispered, voice cracking. I never meant to hurt you.
I know, she said. Twenty years is a long stretch. Feelings dull, passion fadesthats normal. But something must remain: attention, care, interest!
Some is left! he protested.
Then why didnt you show it? she asked.
He stared, unable to answer. He had loved her, yes, but had he ever truly shown it?
I thought you knew, he said.
Telepathy? she laughed sadly. Relationships need work, daily upkeep. You cant just marry and coast.
He swallowed, the weight of his complacency sinking like a stone.
Alright, Ill change. Lets start over, he pleaded.
Her smile was weary. Its too late. Im fortytwo. I wont spend another twenty years alone.
But Im here! he cried.
Physically, yes. Emotionally, youre miles away, she replied, pulling her hand away.
He grabbed it, desperation in his voice. Dont file the divorce. Lets fix this. Ill take holidays, be attentive.
Let go, she whispered. Im leaving.
He watched her drift toward the door, the kitchen lights flickering like a dying candle. He sat, the cold plate of food in front of him, the world having turned upside down in a single night.
Sleep evaded him. He lay awake in darkness, replaying years, counting the countless missed conversations, forgotten anniversaries, cancelled plans. Each tiny neglect had piled up, flooding the basin of her patience.
Morning came. Poppy dressed for work as if nothing had changed, ate breakfast, slipped out. Michael stood at the doorway, his throat raw.
Ill really change, he blurted.
She turned, eyes steady. Not for me. For the next woman you might meet. Dont repeat my mistakes.
What mistakes? he asked.
I stayed silent when I should have shouted. I endured when I should have left. I waited when I should have acted, she said.
So this is final? he asked, voice hollow.
Yes. Goodbye. She walked away, leaving the flat echoing with emptiness.
He called in sick to his job, unable to face anyone. He spent the day wandering his rooms, touching photographs, old travel souvenirs, the novels Poppy kept on the shelf. He found an album of their weddingPoppy in a simple white dress, laughing, Michael beaming, young and naïve.
They had believed love alone would sustain them, like a flower that needs water, sunlight, and care. He had fed it only with money, thinking that was enough. She had been fed, clothed, roofed overstill starving for attention, for a word, for a gaze that saw her truly.
Tears finally broke, unbidden, as he realised the depth of his loss.
That evening Poppy returned, found him on the sofa, eyes swollen. You didnt eat anything? she asked.
No appetite, he replied.
She fetched a bowl of soup from the fridge, heated it, and placed it before him. Eat. You cant starve.
Do you still care? he asked, voice trembling.
I want a divorce, but I dont want you to be ill, she said, sitting beside him, looking out the window.
Poppy, if I truly changed right now, would you stay? he whispered.
She shook her head. No. The love is dead.
Then Ill bring it back, Ill reignite it! he shouted.
From ash nothing grows. Its time to let go, she replied calmly.
Did you meet someone? he asked, hopeful.
No, but I hope to feel wanted again someday, she said.
He fell silent, understanding that words were useless now. He had driven them to this point.
Within a week he moved back to his parents house. His mother wailed, his father shook his head disapprovingly, but Michael accepted his fault without excuse. The divorce was processed swiftly; there was nothing left to split. The flat stayed with Poppy; he didnt argue.
He rented a tiny room in a shared house, returned to work, fell back into the same routine of fishing trips and evenings alone. Life turned a dull, muted shade.
One night, on a fogshrouded street, he saw Poppy walking arminarm with a manhandsome, smiling, her eyes bright with happiness. He stood frozen, chest tightening as if a weight pressed his heart. The man was giving her the attention she had craved, the care she had missed.
Months passed. Michael adjusted to solitude, met friends, went fishing as before, but a new awareness settled within him. He realised he hadnt truly changed; hed merely removed the woman who marked his shortcomings.
He enrolled in a psychology course, attended the theatre, kept a journal, learning to listennot waiting for his turn, but hearing others fully. Slowly, colour returned to his world, people became richer, life more meaningful.
One rainy afternoon he bumped into Poppy outside a supermarket, both balancing grocery bags. Hey, he said.
Hi, she replied.
How are you?
Fine. And you?
They paused, the city sounds humming around them. He asked, The man I saw you with youre together?
She smiled. Yes, his name is Simon. Hes good to me.
Im glad for you, Michael said, genuine warmth in his voice.
She studied him a moment longer. Youve changed.
Im trying. It took a long time to start, but its happening.
Youve done well, she said. Its just too late for us, but maybe right for someone else.
They parting, Michael watched her disappear down the cobbled lane, feeling not pain but gratitude. She had jolted him awake from the mire of complacency, nudged him toward honesty with himself.
They would never reunite, but the lesson was learned. Loss, he now knew, could be the seed of a new beginninga brighter, more conscious life.
The dream lingered, strange and hazy, as if the city itself whispered that sometimes endings are merely doorways to unseen rooms.
