“Emma! We need to talk seriously”
Her husband burst through the door, still in his coat and shoes, his eyes impossibly wide, the words tumbling out before he could even catch his breath: “Emma! We need to talk seriously” And then, without pause, like a man possessed: “Ive fallen in love!”
*Oh, here we go,* thought Emma. *Midlife crisis has finally come knocking. Well, hello there* But she said nothing, only stared at her husbandreally staredfor the first time in years. Five? Six? Maybe eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes when youre about to die. For Emma, it was the last twelve years with him, unspooling like a dream. Theyd met online, the way people do these daysshed shaved three years off her age, hed added an inch to his height, and somehow, against all odds, theyd squeezed into each others checkboxes. Found each other.
She couldnt remember who messaged first, but she knew his opening line hadnt been crudejust lightly self-deprecating, which she liked. At thirty-three and painfully average-looking, she knew her worth on the marriage market (somewhere near the back, if not the very last row), so shed resolved to bite her tongue, open her ears, wear rose-tinted glasses and lace lingerie to their first date. Her handbag held homemade shortbread and a dog-eared copy of Jane Austen.
Surprisingly, it went well. The romance burned fastso fast that by six months in, under relentless pressure from parents whod long given up on grandchildren, he proposed. They rushed through introductions, agreed on a small wedding, and chose the first available date, terrified someone might change their mind.
Life, Emma thought, had been good. Their domestic climate was temperateno scorching dramas, just steady warmth, mutual respect. Wasnt that happiness?
Her husband, ever the straightforward bloke, shed his “sensitive-macho-handyman” persona weeks after the wedding, reverting to his true self: a simple, hardworking man in joggers. Emma, being the more complicated sex, let go of her “sultry-housewife-intellectual” act more graduallyuntil pregnancy sped things up, and she traded it all for a cosy dressing gown with a sigh of relief.
The fact neither ran screaming from the other, despite the masks slipping, only cemented Emmas belief theyd done the right thing.
Two kids, born in quick succession, rocked the boatsometimes violentlybut they never capsized. After every storm, they drifted on, steady. Grandparents doted, careers inched forward, holidays were taken, hobbies indulged. A perfectly ordinary life.
Twelve years married, and not once had he been caught cheatingnot even flirting. Not that Emma was the jealous type; he couldve gotten away with it. The idea of him flirting now made her smirkit was ludicrous. Early on, hed given up on traditional compliments, opting instead for silent, wide-eyed stares, like some baffled lemur. Over time, Emma learned to read his emotions in the roundness of his eyesawe, approval, shock, confusion, outrage.
Now, imagining him mooning at some *rat*, pupils dilating like saucers, her throat went dry. She forced a grin.
“So whats her name, then? This rat of yours?”
His eyes bulged further. He fumbled, stammering, “Whhow did you? Bloody hell, Emma, youre unbelievable! I mean, I *had* to get her, shes justlook at her! Soft, gorgeousshes even a bit like you!”
From inside his coat, he produced a tiny grey rat, pink ears translucent, nose like a rose petal, black eyes gleaming.
