**Diary Entry**
“Emily, we need to talk”
I came home today and blurted it out before even taking off my coat or shoes “Emily, we need to talk!” Then, without pausing for breath, my eyes wide as saucers, I just said it: “I’ve fallen in love!”
*Blimey,* Emily thought. *So the midlife crisis has finally come knocking. Well, hello there.* But she stayed silent, studying me closelysomething she hadnt done in years. Five? Six? Maybe even eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Well, for Emily, it was our entire marriage playing out in her head. Wed met the usual wayonline. Emily had shaved off two years; Id added an inch to my height. Somehow, despite our little fibs, wed just about squeezed into each others search criteria and found one another.
She couldnt remember who messaged first, but she knew my letter had been tasteful, with just the right touch of self-deprecating humoursomething shed liked. At thirty-three and with looks shed call “perfectly average,” she knew her odds on the dating scene werent stellar. She wasnt at the very back, but close enough. So for our first date, shed bitten her tongue, kept her ears open, put on rose-tinted spectacles (and some lace lingerie), and tucked a tin of homemade shortbread and a copy of Dickens into her handbag.
Surprisingly, it went well. Who knew playing the part could work? Our romance was fast and furious.
After six months of steady datingand relentless nagging from parents whod long given up hope of grandchildrenI finally proposed. We rushed through introductions, settled on a small wedding (a condition both families happily agreed to), and booked the first available date, terrified someone might change their mind.
Life was goodor so Emily thought. Our marriage was tropical: warm and steady, no scorching African dramas, just comfortable respect. Wasnt that happiness?
Being a typical bloke, I shed my “sensitive, romantic, teetotal handyman” act within weeks of the wedding. Out went the stiff performance; in came the real mea simple, hardworking chap in comfy joggers.
Emily, being the more complicated sex, took longer to unwind from her “demure, sexy, intellectual homemaker” role. But pregnancy sped things up, and within a year, shed gladly traded her cracking facade for a cosy dressing gown.
The fact that neither of us ran for the hillsor even complainedabout the others true self only confirmed to Emily shed made the right choice. Our little unit felt solid.
Raising two kids back-to-back rocked the boat now and then, but we never capsized. Once the storms passed, wed settle back into the steady drift of married life.
Grandparents doted and helped where they could. Work was slow but steady. We travelled, pursued hobbies, made time for each otherall while staying firmly, unremarkably average.
Twelve years married, and not once had I been caught flirting, let alone cheating. Emily wasnt the jealous typeI couldve gotten away with itbut the thought of me trying made her smirk. Early on, after a few clumsy compliments, Id given up on words altogether. Now, I just *stared*. Like a startled owl.
Over the years, Emily had learned to read my emotions by the sheer *roundness* of my eyes: wild admiration, quiet approval, utter confusion, full-blown outrage. And now she pictured me, eyes bulging wider and wider, whispering sweet nothings to some rodent.
Her throat went dry. Fighting a nervous grin, she croaked, “So whats this rats name, then?”
My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. Fumbling, I stammered, “Howhow did you? Bloody hell, you guessed it was a *rat*? You wont believe itI saw her and just *had* tolook at her! Soft as anything, gorgeous she even *looks* like you!”
And from inside my jacket, I pulled out a tiny grey rat with pink ears, a twitching nose, and beady black eyes.
**Lesson:** Sometimes love isnt about grand gestures. Its about knowing someone so well you see the madness comingand laughing anyway.
