Oliver lay on his back, the weight of Martha’s head nestled in the hollow of his collarbone. One of her legs draped over him, her palm pressed against his chest just above his heart. He listened to her steady breathing, melting into the warmth of their closeness. *If only we could stay like this forever…* The thought drifted through his mind as he closed his eyes.
A sudden jolt snapped him awake, as if someone had nudged him sharply in the ribs. Martha stirred beside him.
“Is it time already?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Oliver couldn’t see the window from the sofa, but the deepening dusk in the room told him evening had come. Long past time to leave their little nest. The thought twisted in his chest.
They’d met too late, both already bound by duty—families, children, unspoken promises. They lived from stolen moment to stolen moment, aching for these fleeting hours together. He sighed before he could stop himself, and Martha lifted her head.
“It’s pitch black out!” she gasped, suddenly wide awake, and scrambled off the bed.
Where her hand had rested, his skin now felt cold. She was right there—yet already, loneliness gnawed at him.
“Get up. We’ve got to go. What am I supposed to tell my husband?”
“The truth,” Oliver answered, tossing the sheets aside.
They dressed quickly, avoiding each other’s eyes. He didn’t care what waited for him at home. He’d made his peace with it long ago. The lying, the hiding—he was sick of it. But Martha was tense, irritated at how they’d dozed off, wasting precious time.
“Just say you ran into an old friend from uni. Lost track of time,” he offered.
“He knows all my friends. Might even call them.” She still wouldn’t look at him.
“Make someone up. A childhood acquaintance. A neighbour from years back.”
“And what will you tell *your* wife?” Martha stopped buttoning her blouse and fixed him with a stare.
He stepped closer, cupped her face, searched her eyes.
“She stopped asking long ago. She knows.” He kissed her, and she softened in his arms, the tension slipping away. The dark thickened around them, wrapping them in its quiet embrace, as if reluctant to let them go.
Martha pushed him away—gently, but firmly.
“If we don’t leave now, we never will.” She finished buttoning her blouse in brisk, impatient movements.
Oliver wanted to say something—anything—to ease her anxiety. He’d offered a hundred times to come clean, to break free from the lies. But the children… His little Emily, just ten. Martha’s twelve-year-old son, Daniel.
When they’d started this, he thought it would fizzle out. A fling, nothing more. But it had grown into something deeper, something he couldn’t walk away from. He’d sacrifice everything for her—but was she ready? She always dodged the question, begged for more time. He exhaled sharply.
“Don’t be mad. We agreed…” Her voice was small, tinged with guilt.
“Go down to the car. Keys are in my jacket pocket. I’ll tidy up.”
“Don’t take too long,” she called from the hallway.
How had hours slipped by so fast? Usually, after the rush of passion, they’d talk, dream aloud. But today, they’d dozed off. Left things unfinished, hanging in the air.
The dim glow from the hallway barely lit the room. The front door clicked shut. Martha was gone. Oliver folded the sofa back into its place, stashed the bedding in the hidden storage beneath it. The landlady never touched it. He straightened, scanning the room—no trace of them remained.
In the cramped hallway, he shrugged on his coat, pulled out a few folded notes (always withdrew them from the ATM beforehand), and left them on the side table. A flick of the switch, and he stepped out.
The flat—rented for these brief escapes—belonged to an elderly widow. A colleague had tipped him off about it years ago, back when *he* was the one sneaking around.
At the arranged time, the landlady would vanish—where to, he never asked. She needed the money. They needed the space.
A hotel would’ve been easier. But too risky. Too many eyes. Too many strangers in the same sheets before them.
On the stairs, he passed a woman lugging heavy shopping bags. He muttered a greeting and sidestepped, but she ignored him. He felt her gaze boring into his back.
In his own high-rise, where he lived with his wife and daughter, neighbours always exchanged polite nods, even if they were strangers. Just how things were done.
Here, no one greeted outsiders. Maybe because the tenants all knew each other, had lived here for decades. A stranger was a disturbance. Old people were always suspicious.
Oliver slid into the car and glanced at Martha.
“Ready?”
The shadows inside hid her expression.
“Maybe you’re right.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe we *should* tell them. End the lying. We’re good together. But where would we even go if we… if we stayed?”
The unfinished weight of their earlier conversation must have been pressing on her too.
“We’d figure it out. Rent a place at first.”
“Like this one?” Her voice cracked.
He didn’t answer, focused on pulling out of the car park. The outskirts were quiet, but traffic thickened as they neared the city centre. Before reaching Martha’s street, Oliver pulled over. She leaned in for a last kiss—one final moment before parting.
“Tuesday?” She pulled away. Her eyes gleamed—streetlamp reflections or tears, he couldn’t tell.
“I’ll ring you tomorrow,” he promised.
Martha stepped out and vanished between the buildings without looking back.
Oliver lingered, half expecting her to reappear. Then he turned the car around and headed home.
***
The flat was dark, save for a sliver of light under Daniel’s door. Martha toed off her shoes and peeked inside.
“Hey. Has your dad been home?” She leaned over his shoulder.
“Yeah. Came and went.”
“Did he say where? Or when he’d be back?”
“Nope.” Daniel didn’t look up from his workbook.
“I’ll get dinner started.” She slipped back into the hall.
They’d met by chance. She’d been walking home from university when a car pulled up beside her, the driver asking for directions to a tucked-away house. She offered to show him.
After that, he’d waited for her outside campus. She’d climb into his car under the envious whispers of her classmates.
When he proposed, her mother had urged her to say yes.
*”You’re young. He won’t stray. You’ll want for nothing. What more could you need? Love burns out fast. First it’s passion, then it’s drink, fists, affairs… He’s reliable. Older. Stable. Doesn’t touch alcohol.”*
So she’d agreed. Back then, she’d believed love could grow. But it never did. When she found out she was pregnant, her first thought was *termination*. Then fear took over.
*”A son will carry your name forever. Your husband paid for my eye surgery. Buys my blood pressure meds. My arthritis pills. Thanks to him, I can still walk.”*
All true. But how do you live without love? Comfortable, yes—but hollow.
Then, a year ago, she’d met Oliver. Her starving heart had recognised his instantly.
The front door clicked shut. Her husband shuffled in the hallway. He stepped into the kitchen and slumped into a chair.
“Dinner won’t be long,” Martha said, her back still turned.
Silence. After a minute, she risked a glance. He was staring into space, lost in thought.
“Everything alright?”
He flinched, then locked eyes with her. There was something unsettling in his gaze—not just worry. *Fear?*
“Are *you*?” he countered.
“Ran into an old friend. Someone from school. We lost track of time…”
She could’ve stayed silent—he hadn’t asked—but the excuses spilled out anyway.
“I’ll call Daniel. We’ll eat soon.” She hurried out, relieved at the temporary reprieve. The air around her husband crackled with something unspoken.
Dinner passed in silence.
“What’s wrong?” she finally broke.
“Nothing now.” He barely looked at her.
*Now?* Her stomach clenched.
Women always *know* before they *know*. Martha felt it—he *knew*. Had done *something*. But what? She barely made it to the bathroom before retching.
“You sick?” His voice at her back made her jump. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Bad takeaway,” she rasped.
He just stood there, watching, as if trying to peel back her thoughts.
“Be right out.” She turned to the sink, ran the tap. He lingered, then left. Martha exhaledAnd as the years passed in their small, sunlit flat by the sea, with Daniel’s laughter drifting in from the garden and Oliver’s hand warm in hers, Martha finally understood what it meant to be home.
