“Alan, don’t come round anymore. Alright?” I asked calmly.
“In what sense? Not today?” Alan blinked, confused.
…It was early morning, and Alan was already in the hallway, rushing off to work.
“No, not at all. Ever,” I clarified.
“Hm. What’s happened, Diana? Look, I’ll call you later,” he said, planting a quick kiss on my cheek before darting out. I shut the door behind him and exhaled in relief.
…Those words hadn’t come easily. Alan had been like family.
Last night, I’d been passionate, insatiable—my way of saying goodbye. He hadn’t a clue, of course.
“Diana! You were brilliant tonight. An absolute goddess! Stay just like this forever. Love you, darling!” he’d gushed.
…We’d been family friends for years. Me, my ex-husband Roger, Alan, and his late wife Bella (he called her “Squirrel,” annoyingly sweet).
Those were wild, reckless days. Truth be told, I’d always fancied Alan a bit. If I bought a dress, shoes, a handbag, part of me wondered—would Alan like it? Bella had been my best friend.
We’d been through so much together, too much to recount. I knew Alan wasn’t exactly indifferent to me, but boundaries were always respected. At gatherings, he’d hug me and whisper,
“Missed you, Di.”
Honestly, when couples befriend other couples, there’s always *some* spark. Someone’s got a soft spot for someone else. Human nature, really. Probably why these friendships don’t last forever. I don’t believe in platonic friendships between men and women—there’s always a past, present, or future bedroom lurking. Sooner or later, it burns like a haystack set alight.
…Roger used to eye Bella like a kid at a sweet shop. I’d thump him.
“Di, don’t be daft! We’re mates!” he’d say, then add with a smirk,
“Only the dead stay pure.”
I trusted Bella completely—she’d never cross the line. But Roger? Oh, he was a cherry-picker. Twenty years in, we divorced. He married one of his “cherries” after she burbled something about an *heir*. By then, our kids had flown the nest. So I packed Roger’s bags and waved him off.
*Well, this is it—the famed spinsterhood*, I thought at first.
Alan and Bella dropped by often, oozing pity. Truthfully, I wasn’t suffering—just developed a deep loathing for holidays. Nothing like pacing an empty flat to make loneliness sting. No one to bicker with, cry at, or simply *talk* to.
…Three years later, Alan was widowed. Death’s annoyingly inflexible that way. Bella had a long, painful illness, and before she went, she *bequeathed* Alan to me.
“Look after him, Di. Don’t let some *other* woman snatch him. He’s always liked you—I knew. Just… be together.”
Alan mourned properly—granite headstone, fresh flowers. Then, gradually, he started visiting. I welcomed him, helped him grieve, smothered him in warmth. We had memories to laugh over, sorrows to share.
…We’d walked life’s path side by side, splitting joy and grief fifty-fifty. Grew closer than ever.
Then—somewhere along the way—I started *dreading* it. Alan began grating on me. I picked fights over nothing. Realised: *He’s just… not it.*
Wrong smell. Cold bed. No wit. His rambling was like listening to a blind man describe a sunset. Nitpicky about food, fussy with clothes. Like moonlight—nice, but no substitute for the sun. Bella must’ve *adored* him to put up with all that.
The guilt gnawed. Maybe I’d grown too used to solitude. Every spark I’d ever felt for Alan had fizzled. When his very *existence* began to irk me, I suggested we part ways. I planned one spectacular night—*let him remember that*—then vanish forever.
Alan, of course, was smitten, convinced we were blissful. Met my jabs with puppy-eyed smiles. Kissed my hands, never argued.
“Don’t be cross, darling. I’ll fix everything. You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he’d say. “Who’ll love you like I do?”
And—blast it—he had a point. Every time, I melted like butter.
…Alan rang during his lunch break.
“Diana! What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
“Fine. Come home early. I’ve missed you,” I mumbled.
*Well*, I thought, *you’re my suitcase with a broken handle—too useless to keep, too sentimental to toss.*
Our paths were tangled now. What else could I do? Abandon a widower bequeathed to me? Poor sod wouldn’t survive a week…
