**A Second Wind**
Simon wasn’t handsome, not like some Hollywood star. He worked as an ordinary engineer at a digger factory. He didn’t drink—well, maybe a pint now and then on holidays. Didn’t smoke. Married for twenty-two years, he’d never once looked at another woman.
Their daughter had married and moved to Manchester with her husband. No grandchildren yet, but Simon wasn’t bothered. Kids meant responsibility, noise, and toys scattered across the floor. He was used to quiet evenings with the telly and the paper. What was the rush? He’d spoil grandkids soon enough.
His wife, Margaret, was perfect in every way: pleasant-looking, well-kept, the house always cosy and spotless, a hot meal on the table without fail. Special occasions meant homemade Victoria sponge or a beef Wellington. Life, in short, had turned out well.
Driving home from work, squinting against the setting sun, he looked forward to a hearty dinner and an evening in front of the telly.
Simon stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in the hall, and listened. Usually, Margaret would call from the kitchen, saying dinner was nearly ready. But tonight, nothing. A prickling unease crept into his chest. He moved down the hall. There she was—by the wardrobe, dresses flung onto the sofa, an open suitcase waiting.
“Where’re you off to? Manchester? Has our girl had the baby?” Simon asked.
Margaret didn’t look at him. She folded another dress into the suitcase, but it was too full—the zip strained at the seams.
“You deaf or what? I’m shouting here, and you’re ignoring me. Where are you going?” Simon’s temper flared.
Margaret glanced around the room—checking she hadn’t forgotten anything—then tried pressing the case shut.
“Instead of gawping, you could help. Honestly.” She blew a strand of hair from her face.
“I asked where you’re going with half your wardrobe. That a stupid question?” He clenched his jaw, irritation boiling up.
“Where d’you think? I’m leaving you.”
The words hung in the air. Simon raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Because I’m bored stiff. Now, are you helping or not?” She nodded at the suitcase.
“Bored of what?” He stepped forward, slammed the lid shut, and yanked the zip closed.
“Everything. You. Cooking. Staring at the telly night after night.”
“You could’ve said. We could’ve gone to the theatre, mixed things up.” The words tumbled out, half-hearted.
“And listen to you snoring through the second act? Days blur together—life’s passing me by.” Her voice cracked, raw with frustration.
“That’s how it is. Doesn’t matter if we move or stand still—time goes anyway,” Simon said, trying to sound wise.
“Stop lecturing. I want something to look back on. And what have I got? Frying pans? Washing-up? You behind a newspaper?” Her voice rose, sharp as broken glass.
“You think I’ve got nowhere to go but our daughter’s? I’m leaving for someone who sees me—really sees me. Who writes me poetry.” Her gaze drifted upwards, dreamy.
“And me?” Simon’s stomach dropped.
“You? Carry on like always. Only now you’ll have to cook and wash your own shirts.” She sighed. “You stopped noticing me. I cut my hair two months ago—changed the colour. Did you even look?”
With that, she dragged the case through the hall, wheels leaving tracks on the carpet.
As she shrugged on her coat, Simon stared at those twin lines on the floor. Felt like the suitcase had rolled straight over his heart, leaving the same marks.
The front door slammed. The lock clicked. Only then did he blink, tearing his eyes from the carpet. She was really gone.
He drifted to the kitchen. The kettle was cold. The fridge held half a pot of stew, some leftover ham, tinned beans, eggs, and a jug of milk. He shut the door. His appetite had vanished.
Back in the living room, he sank onto the sofa—the same spot where her suitcase had been. Couldn’t face the telly or the paper. Those things were only fun with Margaret nearby, even if she was just clattering pans or ironing. Home had been alive. Now it was hollow.
He sighed, staring at the blank screen, trying to make sense of it. The silence gnawed at him—like she’d taken every sound with her. Pulling on a jacket, he stumbled outside. But the emptiness followed.
Passing a pub, he saw people laughing inside. Needed noise, needed *anything*. He ordered a whiskey. Then another. The pain dulled.
No memory of getting home. Woke in his clothes, head pounding. Checked his phone—Saturday. Thank God. He staggered to the loo, then collapsed back into bed.
Two hours later, a shower cleared the fog. Outside, the sun was shining, cars rushed past, people milled about. Nausea hit when he passed the pub from last night. He hurried towards the river.
A woman smiled at him. Simon glanced around—no one else nearby.
“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
She paused, waiting.
“Sorry—do I know you? Bit out of sorts today,” he mumbled.
“Everything alright? You’ve gone pale.” Concern flickered in her eyes.
“Wife left. For some bloke who writes poetry. I don’t.” The words spilled out.
“You’re sweating. Let’s sit.” She scanned the benches—all taken.
“Worst part is, I got hammered last night. Don’t usually drink.” He wiped his brow.
“You ought to be home, resting. Come on, I’ll walk you.”
As they went, she talked—her son married and moved away, her daughter’s useless fiancé.
“You said you didn’t know me. I work in accounts at the factory. That you don’t remember? Speaks well of you. Means you were a good husband.”
“Good enough, she wouldn’t have left. Fancy a cuppa? House is like a morgue now.”
“Bit soon, isn’t it? Your wife’s just gone.” She made to leave.
“Then I’m not going back either.”
After a pause, she took his arm. “Alright.”
Over tea, talking felt easy—like he’d known her forever.
When she stood to leave, Simon jolted. “You’re off?”
“Getting dark. You need rest.”
He asked for her number. Once she left, he slept deeply. Woke feeling lighter. Found yesterday’s sandwiches, boiled the kettle. Then rang her.
“Wait—did I ask your name? Or forgot… Debbie? Lovely name. Fancy a walk later? On the waterfront? Grand.”
Dressing in a fresh shirt, he hummed to himself. Life had colour again.
After work, he’d wait for Debbie by the factory gates, drive her home. Some nights they ate out; others, she cooked at his place while he chatted nonsense.
One evening, he said, “Why tiptoe? I’ve got the space. Sick of your son-in-law? Move in.”
“That a proposal?” She didn’t even blink.
“Suppose so. Still married, technically. But that’ll sort itself.”
And just like that, she stayed. He adored her—no, adored *who he was* with her. Like a second wind. Rushed home at six, helped chop veg, talked more in weeks than he had in years with Margaret.
Then, one night over dinner—a key turned in the lock.
Margaret stood in the doorway.
“Thought you’d be half-dead. Instead, you’ve replaced me already.” The air thickened.
“She left first,” Debbie said coolly.
“And you are?” Margaret’s stare could’ve cut glass.
“Who’re *you*?” Debbie stood, chin lifted.
Simon sat frozen. The kitchen crackled with tension. Margaret back? And Debbie—he couldn’t lose her now.
“Cat got your tongue?” Margaret snapped.
His voice steadied. “If you’d come back sooner, I’d have taken you. But Debbie… she made me believe I could be happy again. If it’s the flat you want, we’ll sell, split it.”
Margaret’s mouth opened—then shut. With a final glare, she left.
“You sure?” Debbie whispered.
Simon took her hands. “She’s my past. You’re what’s next.”
Debbie smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “Then I’ll make sure you never regret it.”
