The Anticipation of Happiness
They say the anticipation of happiness is sweeter than happiness itself. Because while you wait, hoping and dreaming, you’re already happy. But the moment you grasp it—it’s fleeting. Before you’ve even savored it, it fades into the ordinary, just another part of life. And so, you start waiting all over again…
James Marlowe had everything: a flat in London, a sleek car, a respectable job with a handsome salary, and a wife—quite beautiful, if he said so himself. They’d been sweethearts since secondary school, first loves who’d defied the odds to build a life together.
Then there was his daughter, little four-year-old Emily, his sunshine, his joy. James adored her. His wife, Claire, stayed home with the girl, and their life was comfortable, predictable.
What more could a man want? Live and be grateful. But that’s human nature—once you have it all, you crave something more.
Over the years, he and Claire had settled into an easy rhythm, understanding each other without words. The fiery passion of youth had cooled into something steady, reliable.
Every morning, James drank his strong coffee, always waiting on the table after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts that smelled of fresh linen, kissed Claire’s cheek, and drove his Audi to the office.
Evenings brought a warm dinner. Weekends meant barbecues at his parents’ countryside cottage or sledging in winter. No, James had no right to complain. Fate had been kind. Few men could claim such luck.
And yet…
One day, a new employee joined the office—young, vibrant, with dark, doe-like eyes. Eleanor “Nell” Harper. The name sang like a melody. Was it her eyes? The music of her name? Or just the thrill of something new? Whatever it was, James was hooked. His heart recognized her, trembling with anticipation.
He started bumping into Nell—at the coffee machine, in the corridor, during lunch. Soon, he realized these weren’t accidents. She was seeking him out too.
One morning, he parked his car and waited, watching for her light step on the pavement. He timed it perfectly, flinging open the office door just as she reached it.
In the lift, he stole glances, catching her quick, curious looks. But the office was crowded—no chance for private words.
Then, one rare moment, they were alone. He asked about her job, the weather, weekend plans. She answered with a teasing smile.
Autumn faded into winter. The office Christmas party loomed—his best shot. He’d stay late, dance with her, feel alive again.
All evening, he watched Nell. When the music started, he was the first to sweep her onto the floor. Holding her close, his pulse raced, just like it had years ago when he’d danced with Claire at their school disco. Nell’s dark eyes promised everything.
Flushed from wine and rhythm, they slipped into the hallway for air. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. She agreed without hesitation. Laughing, they dashed into the frosty night, leaving the party behind.
The security guard watched them go, bitter. Forgotten on his post, no champagne or chocolates for him. But James didn’t spare him a thought.
They walked the city, laughing, skirting the truth about his marriage. Nell knew, but pretended not to care.
“Lucky, lucky,” his heart thumped as they crunched through snow.
Exhausted, James regretted leaving his car. “You live miles out, don’t you?” he finally asked.
“Outskirts, new builds,” Nell laughed. “Let’s grab a cab.”
Outside her flat, he hesitated. Sobriety brought guilt—he should be home reading Emily’s bedtime story. But then Nell invited him up for coffee. “Just a quick rest,” he told himself, sending the taxi away.
Coffee never happened. Two hours later, they lay tangled in her sheets.
Standing at her window later, he saw nothing but darkness—no stars, no streetlamps, just empty black. He and Nell seemed alone in the universe, floating above the snow. For a moment, he was happier than he’d been in years.
Leaving was hard. But he couldn’t risk suspicion—not yet. A shower, a hasty goodbye, promises of more. He cabbed back to his car, deserted in the office lot, and drove home.
Half past two. The flat was dim, Claire feigning sleep. He played along, slipping silently into bed.
Morning brought no fights, no raised voices. Their walls were thin—arguments stayed hushed. Even if he confessed, he doubted Claire would shout.
Friends envied him. Colleagues saw a man unburdened by domestic storms. He never drank too much; Claire never nagged. The perfect marriage—or so he’d thought before Nell.
Now, he woke lighter, humming in the shower. Claire handed him coffee, turned her cheek for his kiss.
Meetings with Nell became routine—her flat safe on the city’s edge, where no one knew him. Sometimes guilt gnawed at him. Why ruin such a good life? But then he’d weigh it: Claire, Emily, stability on one side; Nell’s wild passion on the other. The thrill made him feel young again.
A year passed. But even sweets grow stale. Slowly, the fire dimmed. More often, he craved quiet evenings at home. Nell exhausted him.
Claire was predictable, familiar. Nell was wonderful—but would she make a good wife? He had too much to lose. And lately, Nell kept asking—*When will we be together?*
He dodged, citing Emily’s age. But Nell pushed harder. Doubts festered. He needed to choose.
The scales tipped toward Claire—steady, safe. What future waited with volatile Nell?
Breaking it off was harder than he’d thought. One kiss from her, and his resolve melted. If only he could merge them—Claire’s calm, Nell’s fire.
One afternoon at work, rehearsing breakup lines, his chest seized. Iron vise pain. He gasped, stumbled—then darkness.
Voices blurred through cotton wool:
“Bloke lasted longer than I would’ve…”
“Women ran him ragged…”
“James, wake up! Don’t leave me!”—Nell’s voice.
“Don’t leave *us*,” Claire whispered.
“Daddy, read to me…” Emily cried.
He strained to open his eyes.
“God, am I dead? I’m only thirty-two! I’ll fix everything—just let me live!” he begged the void.
“Really? No more lies? You’ll leave Nell?” a clear voice asked.
“Yes! Who are you?”
“You can’t see me. You’d go blind.”
Suddenly, air tore into his lungs. Pain meant life.
“He’s awake!” someone shouted.
Light stabbed his eyes. Claire leaned over him.
Nell visited twice at the hospital, tearful, fleeting.
Two weeks later, home with Emily, he wondered—how could he have traded this for what? A fleeting thrill?
Then, while Claire showered, his phone buzzed.
“Miss you. When will I see you?” Nell murmured.
“Not now,” he whispered.
“She’s there? I’ll wait—”
He should end it. Say *never*. But…
“Tomorrow,” he lied.
“Work calling?” Claire appeared, towel turbaned.
“Yeah. Asking when I’m back.”
*One last time*, he told himself. Then, like a warning, the pain struck again—darkness, terror.
He grabbed his phone. *It’s over. Don’t come again.* Send. Block.
There. Easy.
Because he wanted to live.
