Not quite like the telly, but close enough.
Mary loved TV dramas and dreamed her life could be just as perfect as the ones on screen. But those were just dreams—in reality, things were far simpler, and her days rolled by quietly, uneventfully.
She married Mike, thinking it was love—at least, that’s what she told herself. But Mike, ever restless and flighty since childhood, never changed. He brought her to his small cottage, and after nearly three years of marriage, he announced:
“I’m leaving for the city. Do as you please here—it’s too cramped, too dull. My soul needs more.”
“Mike, what’s got into you? I thought things were fine,” she protested, bewildered.
“Fine for *you*, maybe.”
With that, he grabbed his passport and the few belongings stuffed into an old satchel, and walked out. Rumours spread through the village like wildfire—women whispering at every fence:
“Mike’s gone off to the city, left poor Mary behind. Must’ve found himself a fancy piece there.”
Mary bore it in silence—no tears, no complaints. She stayed in Mike’s cottage—where else could she go? Her brother’s family filled her parents’ house, leaving no room for her. She hadn’t had children.
“God must’ve known Mike’d make a rotten father,” she mused, watching village children play.
Every evening, after chores, Mary sat before the telly, losing herself in dramas full of passion and betrayal. She felt every moment. Sleep never came easy.
Dawn brought feeding the pig, geese, and chickens—then young bullock Plod, who she kept tethered near the garden.
“Mary!” a neighbour called. “Plod’s loose—charging through the lane!”
She dashed outside, finding the bullock ramming his new horns into a picket fence.
“Plod, love—come now,” she cooed, offering bread. He shook his head. “Oh, devil take you!” she snapped. The bullock bolted, scattering a neighbour’s ducks.
She might’ve chased him forever if not for George the tractor driver. He snatched the trailing rope, hauled Plod back, and tied him firm. Mary eyed his rough hands, sinewy under a dirt-streaked shirt. A sudden urge struck her—to be held by those strong arms.
She flushed, shaking the thought away.
*What’s got into me? Like a cat begging for strokes*.
She’d never fancied George—her old schoolmate, always grinning, teasing. And he was taken anyway, living nearby with hulking Zoe. She looked away, stepping back.
Mary had divorced Mike the moment he fled. Suitors had come, even proposed—but none felt right. So she stayed alone, unloved.
George wiped his hands on the grass.
“Come wash up in the yard,” she said. He followed silently, his gaze burning her back.
She noticed how he looked at her—different somehow.
*What’s he playing at?* But George just dried his hands on the towel, gave her a lingering look, and left.
From then on, an invisible thread seemed to stretch between them. Mary blushed when he passed. He took detours by her fence—no wall separated them now—though he never used to walk that way.
She rose early, weeding at dawn—*for the cool air*, she told herself. Really, she hoped to glimpse George heading to work. Their eyes met—his sharp with interest, maybe even adoration.
She fought the sinful thoughts, fearing Zoe.
*God forbid Zoe sees—she’ll spread it round the village.*
Yet George kept walking by, his stares hot. Mary answered with soft smiles. It felt like a scene from *EastEnders*—endless, unpredictable.
One morning, sweeping her yard, she heard:
“Hello, Mary-love.”
She spun. Mike stood there—same smug grin, stubble shading his cheeks. Her heart, once quickened by him, stayed still.
“I’m back. Take me in?”
“Why? City not suit you?”
No pang, no flutter. The love—if ever real—was gone. Her door, shut the day he left, stayed shut.
Mike returned to *his* house. Mary had nowhere else. At night, she barricaded her bedroom with a heavy dresser. Mike took the other half, coming and going through the yard. She climbed in and out her window.
George watched, scowling—until he saw her crawling through the window.
“So, she didn’t take him back.”
Next morning, stepping out, Mary found two wooden steps beneath her window.
*Who’d do this? Not Mike—he’s always out drinking.*
George had built them in the night. He wasn’t married to Zoe—just living together. She was older, with a daughter from a past marriage. He doted on the girl.
Zoe had moved in years ago after a village fête—George drunk, her seizing the chance. Brought her daughter later.
Winter came. Mike’s money ran dry—no more free drinks—so he slunk back to the city. Mary breathed easy.
Then Zoe fell ill—strong as an ox, yet struck down fast. Her mother took the girl; George nursed her until the hospital claimed her. She never returned.
The village buried Zoe with kind words.
“Big woman, but gentle. Never a cross word,” old Annie said.
George lived alone now. Often, Mary glimpsed him clearing her paths of snow before work, glancing up at her window.
Spring arrived. One evening, Mary found her door wide open. A plump woman sat at her table, sipping tea from *her* mug.
“Surprise,” Mike drawled. “We’re moving in—me and Veronica. *My* house, after all.” A petty revenge for her refusal. “My soon-to-be wife. Pack your things—unless you fancy watching us happy.” He winked. Veronica cackled.
That night, Mary shoved the dresser against her door again.
*Lord, how much longer?* Maybe widow Edith would take her in.
Come morning, she hauled her things outside. George appeared, wordlessly carting them to his cottage. Mike and Veronica gawked.
“What’s this, then? Lovebirds?” Mike sneered. “Never pegged you two.”
George took Mary’s hand, leading her home.
“Well then,” Mike muttered. “While I was gone, things got lively.” Veronica’s fist shut him up.
Inside, Mary wept—joy? Shock? George swept her up, the ceiling spinning as he held her.
They wed quick. A baby’s due soon.
Mike lingers outside his house, scowling under his hand. He watches Mary pass.
But what’s she to him now? Behind her stands George—solid as a wall. The one she’d waited for.
