*The children had all grown up, and the very moment she retired, she ran off—just like that! Imagine!* grumbled the silver-haired man in his hat to his chess partner.
Autumn had barely begun scattering its golden leaves across the yard. The weather was perfect, the air crisp and light.
It had become routine—every summer, the pensioners spent their days in the park near their building. They’d claimed a quiet corner with three benches, gathering there all season once the heat faded.
The habit stuck even as the cold crept in. The same group of grey-haired men still took their places on the benches outside.
*If she ran off that quick, maybe it’s not her fault but yours?* His chess partner smirked. *A good husband isn’t the kind a woman leaves.*
Nigel had been in that very spot himself years ago. He knew exactly where this escape had taken root.
The silver-haired man lifted his eyes—same grey as his hair—and smiled.
*Checkmate, Nigel. As for the wife—she did it to spite me! She knows I’m lost without her, so she went and pulled this stunt—just to teach me a lesson.*
Before she left, she’d said it plain:
*I’m sick of waiting on you, Michael! Can’t do a bloody thing without me. Well, I’m off—let’s see how you manage.*
Didn’t even say where she was going.
*So how’s it been, then?* Nigel asked, recalling his own past misery.
*Rubbish. Worse—lonely! First day, I thought I’d celebrate. Even bought a bottle of whiskey. Stuck it in the fridge… couldn’t bring myself to open it.*
No one nagging him, no lectures about drinking. No noise at all. And just like that, the urge vanished. Ached right through him instead.
Nigel laughed. He understood. Lived it himself, word for word.
Michael stared at the chessboard, lost in thought.
The men nearby watched—some nervous, some pitying. No one wanted to be left alone at their age.
Sure, there were rough patches in every marriage, but that’s what a partner was for—to balance you out.
*Call her. Tell her you’ve realised, you’re sorry,* suggested one of the younger ones.
Michael waved a hand.
*Who knows what she even wants now?*
*When I was a lad, I used to herd goats back in the village,* piped up his neighbour from the fifth floor. *If one wandered off, I’d lure it back with a carrot. Do the same—bait her! The rest’ll sort itself out.*
*With what?* Michael snorted. *She’s got everything! Can’t afford to misstep here.*
*Tell you what—I’ll ring her. Say I’ve come by five times and no one’s answered. Sound worried,* offered his landing-mate, William.
*Blimey—yes!* Michael brightened. *She’ll come flying back, think something’s happened! And there I’ll be—flowers, cake, the lot!*
With that, the men dispersed.
—
The next day, as planned, William rang Michael’s wife.
*Haven’t seen him in days. Knocked and knocked—no answer. Might be something wrong… best come quick.*
Michael wasted no time. He dashed to the shops first thing, bought chocolates, then hurried to the florist for three carnations before rushing home.
*Christ, I’m knackered,* he thought. But apologising in pyjamas wouldn’t do.
He changed into his grey suit—the one Margaret had bought him for funerals—and set the table. Everything ready: champagne chilling, kettle boiling. He sat, waiting.
The suit was sweltering. But he couldn’t take it off—had to look his best when Margaret walked in.
Kept darting to the window. No sign of her.
Then he decided to greet her with the flowers. Grabbed the carnations—one snapped right in his hand, just his luck.
Poured himself a whiskey, just a sip, to steady his nerves.
An hour later, he was still on the sofa, flowers in hand, barely keeping his eyes open.
Careful not to wrinkle the suit, he lay down, clutching the carnations to his chest so he wouldn’t fumble for them later.
—
Margaret didn’t arrive till evening. Five hours by train from her sister’s in York, then a taxi.
She looked up at their flat—dark. No lights on.
Panicked, she raced inside.
Quietly, she turned the key, stepped in. No sound. No Michael.
*Oh God, has something happened?*
She flicked on the hall light, walked into the living room—then nearly collapsed.
There, on the sofa, lay Michael—in his suit. Two wilting carnations gripped in his stiff hands.
She dropped to her knees, head bowed, then burst into tears.
*Margaret! You’re back!* He beamed, holding out the flowers.
*You’re alive!* she shrieked. *Been on a bender, have you?! I leave for one week—one week!—and this is what you do?!*
She ranted while he sat there, grinning like an idiot.
*Feels right again,* he thought. *My little runaway’s home. Lured her back, just like a stubborn goat.*
*Smirking, are you?* she snapped. *Just you wait!*
*Love you, Margaret. So much I’ll never let you go again.*
That shut her up.
*This week… I figured it all out. Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything.*
*And no more drinking?*
*Didn’t touch a drop till today. Just that one sip.*
*Hmph.* She marched to the kitchen, flicked the light on—then gasped.
*Oh… Oh my…*
*Good carrot,* Michael thought smugly. *Now just keep surprising her—and she’ll never bolt again.*
