**Second Wind**
Geoffrey wasn’t a heartthrob like Cary Grant. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a tractor factory. He didn’t drink—well, except on holidays. He didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never once looked at another woman.
His daughter had married and moved to Edinburgh with her husband. She wasn’t in a hurry to make him a grandfather, and Geoffrey didn’t mind. Children were responsibility, noise, and toys scattered across the floor. He was accustomed to quiet evenings with a newspaper in front of the telly. Time enough for grandchildren later.
His wife, Margaret, suited him perfectly—pleasant to look at, kept the house cosy and clean, always had a hot meal ready, and baked a proper Victoria sponge for special occasions. In short, life was settled.
He drove home from work, squinting against the setting sun, looking forward to supper and settling in front of the telly.
Geoffrey stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Normally, Margaret would peek out from the kitchen to say dinner was nearly ready. But tonight, silence. A knot of unease twisted in his chest. He walked into the living room. Margaret stood by the wardrobe, its doors flung open, pulling dresses off hangers and tossing them onto the sofa, where an open suitcase lay waiting.
“Where are you going? To see Laura in Edinburgh? Is she pregnant?” Geoffrey asked.
Margaret didn’t look up as she folded a dress into the suitcase.
“Are you deaf? I’ve been shouting—where are you off to?” His voice rose, irritation bubbling under the surface.
She scanned the room, checking she hadn’t forgotten anything, then tried to close the overstuffed case. The zip strained.
“You could help instead of standing there asking silly questions,” Margaret huffed, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes.
“I asked where you’re going with all your things—is that really silly?” Geoffrey bit back the anger clawing its way up his throat.
“Where? I’m leaving you,” she said flatly.
“Why?” His left brow arched.
“I’m bored. Now, are you going to help?” She jerked her chin at the suitcase.
“What’s boring you?” He stepped forward, pressed the lid down, and forced the zip shut in one sharp motion.
“Everything. You bore me. Cooking bores me. Staring at the telly night after night bores me.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve gone to the theatre,” he offered, grasping at straws.
“To be mortified when you snore through it? Days blur together, and life slips past.” Her voice was raw with frustration.
“Life passes no matter what we do,” Geoffrey mused.
“Don’t be clever. I want something to remember at the end. And what will that be? Frying sausages? Washing up? You buried in the paper?” Her voice cracked.
“You think I’ve nowhere to go but Laura’s? I’m leaving for someone who sees me—a woman, a goddess, a queen. Someone who writes me poetry…” Her gaze drifted dreamily upward.
“And me?” The pieces clicked into place.
“You? Keep living as you always have. Cook and clean for yourself now. You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago—did you even see?” She smirked, yanked the suitcase off the sofa, and dragged it down the hall, wheels leaving faint tracks on the carpet.
As Margaret rustled into her coat, Geoffrey stared at the marks on the rug. It felt as if the suitcase had rolled over his heart, leaving identical grooves.
Only when the front door slammed did he flinch, snapping back to reality. She was really gone.
He wandered into the kitchen. The kettle was cold. The fridge held scraps: a pot of stew, half a packet of ham, tinned beans, eggs, and a pint of milk. His appetite vanished.
Back on the sofa, he gazed at the dark TV screen. Silence pressed in like fog. He pulled on his jacket and fled outside, but the emptiness followed.
Passing a pub, he saw people laughing inside. Needing noise, he ducked in and ordered a whiskey. The pain dulled. Then another. And another.
He didn’t remember getting home. He woke in yesterday’s clothes, head pounding. The room spun when he tried to sit up.
Fumbling for his phone, he squinted at the screen—Saturday. He staggered to the loo, then collapsed back into bed.
Two hours later, a shower revived him. Outside, the sun shone. People bustled past. Nausea hit as he passed last night’s pub. He hurried toward the riverfront.
A woman smiled at him. He glanced around—no one else nearby.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said warmly.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
She paused, waiting.
“Sorry, do I know you? I’m a bit out of sorts,” he admitted.
“You look troubled.” Her eyes softened.
“My wife left. For a poet. He writes her verses. I don’t.” The words tumbled out.
“You’re pale. Let’s sit.” She guided him to a bench.
On the walk home, she shared her own troubles—a son married and distant, a daughter with a fiancé she disliked.
“You didn’t know me? I work in accounts at the factory. That you don’t remember says good things—means you were a devoted husband.”
“Not devoted enough. Fancy a cuppa? The flat’s dead quiet.”
She hesitated. “It’s too soon. Another time.”
“Then I’m not going back either.”
After a moment, she took his arm. “Come on.”
Over tea, he felt an odd familiarity, as if they’d met long ago. When she rose to leave, he blurted, “Your number—can I have it?”
After she left, he slept deeply. Waking, the world felt less bleak. He found leftover sandwiches, brewed tea, and called her.
“Sorry, I forgot your name—Natalie? Fancy a walk? The pier in an hour?”
He hummed as he buttoned a fresh shirt. Life had meaning again.
Soon, he waited for Natalie after work, driving her home or sharing meals at his flat. She cooked; he chatted, making her laugh.
One evening, he said, “Why stay with that fiancé? Move in with me.”
“Is that a proposal?”
“Well, I’m still married, but—”
She stayed. With her, he felt alive—rushing home at six, shopping together, talking late into the night. In weeks, they’d shared more than in years with Margaret.
Then, one evening, the lock clicked.
Margaret stood in the doorway. “I thought you’d be starving. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.”
“You left first,” Natalie said coolly.
Margaret’s gaze swept over her. “And you are?”
Natalie stood, chin high. “And you?”
Geoffrey sat frozen, torn between past and future.
“Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.
He stood. “If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you. But Natalie helped me believe in happiness. If you want the flat, we’ll sell it.”
Margaret’s mouth opened, then shut. With a final glare, she left.
Natalie exhaled. “Sure about this?”
He took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re my future.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ll make sure you never regret it.”
And Geoffrey knew—love wasn’t just habit. It was choosing, every day, to see and be seen.
