The other woman in his life was of a rare, almost otherworldly beauty. If she had been a man, he would have chosen her too. You see, there are women who know their own worth. They walk straight, their attire proper, stare directly into the eyes, listen to the very end. They are unhurried, their gestures calm, they do not feel the need to flash their shoulders or thrust their chests forward to be seen; instead they keep a regal silence and never lose themselves in temperament.
She would have chosen her, perhaps precisely because she was the opposite. For what was she like? Forever running, raising her voice at the children or at Edward, dropping things from her hands, never managing to gather herself, always a step behind at work, bosses perpetually displeased. She wore trousers and Tshirts or jumpers, because who would bother with a dress or a blouse? She could no longer remember the last time she ironed a daisypatterned blouse; a stateoftheart tumble dryer saved her from the tyranny of the iron.
The other woman, however, was immaculate. Silhouette, gait, long legs, rich hair, clear eyes, a face so lovely youd reach for it with your hands. From the moment he first saw her, his breath never returned to a quiet rhythm. It had happened after a business trip to a farflung district of Manchester. Exhausted and hungry, he wandered into a café by chance. It was packed; only a corner table lay empty. He sat, lifted his gaze over the menu, and nothing seemed strange. Everything was familiar: he recognized the man sitting behind him, and then he saw her too.
The man held his hands in his palms, kissed his own fingers slowly. It was as if the scene were a painting: his fingertips smelled of basil. He tried to turn his eyes away, but the woman was unmistakably different.
A strange sensation washed over him, like the seconds before a burn: you see the red marks forming on skin and know pain is coming, yet you linger in the anticipation, breathing desperately over the wound to soften what follows.
It ought to have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
Edward came home on time, as he always didcalm and balanced. She was the one who ignited at the slightest spark, impulsive, quicktempered. He was a moderate sanguine, with a pleasant sense of humour, the exact opposite of her.
How fitting it would have been for his humour to land just then. His wit, however, was illsuited to the moment.
All evening she wanted to confront him directly, with an impartial tone: So, what about the affair? I saw you yesterday at The Green Café; she was stunning. I understand, I wouldnt have held back myself. She imagined him drenched in a cold sweat, his forehead flushing, straining to stay composed.
She might have gone on: Right, and now? Should the children meet the new mother? Where do I move? Does she bring her own flat, or shall we shift her into our house? He said nothing. As usual, Edward wrapped his arms around her and fell asleep quickly beside her.
Perhaps they never even reached the part of the night that involved intimacy; he imagined herself fleeing to the far side of the bed, laughing silently. He saw her thinking like a woman who watches deceit with her own eyes yet insists she never noticed it.
Maybe they were only at the beginning, the stage of glances and hearts beating in synchrony. He knew how to hide, to betray nothingnot a glance, not a movement.
He tossed and turned in the bed, slept in fragments, dreaming of coloured flowers and mistresses in unknown scarlet dresses.
Morning found him with a heavy head, moving slower than usual, preparing the children for school with a calm efficiency.
All day he asked himself what women typically do when they catch their husbands with another woman. Search Google? Google offered no answer. He had no plan either. Should he try to go on living?
He didnt think he needed to try. He was already living, just as before: the same routine, the same husband returning home on time, no foreign perfume on his shirt, cheerful noisy children, Sunday trips to the cinema. The same twohour affairs a week, sometimes three if she paid attention to the details.
Had he perhaps erred that day in the café? Nohe called at noon; she didnt answer. He hailed a taxi and returned to the same café, giving the driver a brief excuse about waiting for an important parcel for work. Edwards car was parked opposite. He saw them both exit and climb into the vehicle together.
He went pale, asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended to make a call, then shouted theatrically into his silent phone: Shame on you and your pack! Im done, Im off to work! Even then he cared not what the driver thought.
When you discover a mistress, your world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how to live otherwise? To endure? For what, for whom?
He recalled a couple of friends, where the husband also had a lover. He hid, lied, but the wife eventually learned. It turned scandalous; he clung to denial until messages on his phone proved otherwisemessages hacked, whispers of jealous rivals.
Then his wife, resolute, said, I would never lie. It would be ridiculous to deny it. If you do something, you own the responsibility to admit it. Choose: cut off the mistress and stay with the family, or leave, but care for your own.
That struck him as admirable. What a serious man she was! Yes, its easy to give advice from the sidelines, without being directly involved. When life thrusts you into the centre, when others expect you to decide and balance, courage and equilibrium evaporate.
He entered the same café again and sat at their table. The mistress lifted her eyes, surprised. Edwards hand stiffened, then he clenched his fists beneath the table. Silence. He watched them with a detached curiosity. The mistress instantly understood who she wasor perhaps she had already known.
Edward wanted to speak, but she halted him with a raised hand: Its not as if I didnt notice, is it? she murmured softly. Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please, think of the children, the flat we share, the elderly parents. Youre both mature; you can manage. She rose. The freshly pressed dress suited her wella pity she hadnt worn one in ages.
Sometimes bravery means saying the truth and moving forward with dignity, no matter how hard the path. And a womans dignity does not come from shoes or ironed gowns, but from the calm with which, at the end, she gathers her strength and, nonetheless, carries on with her life.
