London, 12March
I told Tom, as calmly as I could, Dont come round any more, okay? He looked bewildered. What do you mean? Not today? he asked. It was early morning; Tom was already at the front door, already hurrying off to his shift at the factory.
No, I mean never again, I repeated, trying not to let the tremor in my voice give me away.
He paused, a smile flickering. Whats wrong, Emily? Ill give you a call at lunch, he said, planting a quick kiss on my cheek before bolting out. I shut the door behind him and exhaled, half relieved, half empty.
Saying those words had taken far longer than Id admit. Tom wasnt just a neighbour; hed been almost family. That night I felt a fierce, unquenchable restlessness. I said goodbye, and Tom didnt seem to grasp any of it. He only managed a surprised laugh:
Emily! Youre a star todayabsolutely brilliant! Stay like that, love. I adore you, darling!
We used to be families who mixed social lives. My husband Harry, Tom and his wife Bea (he affectionately called her Bee) shared countless evenings together. Youth was noisy, restless, reckless. To be honest, Tom always had a certain appeal. Whenever I bought a dress, shoes or a clutch, a tiny part of me wondered whether Tom would like the new piece. Bea was my confidante.
Wed been through more than we could recount. I knew Toms affection for me was a little too close for comfort, yet we always kept a proper distance. When we met, Tom would hug me gently and whisper in my ear:
Emily, Ive missed you so much!
Ive always thought that when families become friends, theres inevitably a sparkwhether a man feels something for a woman or the reverse. People are prone to temptation; someone will like someone else, perhaps even fall for a friends spouse. Thats why friendships sometimes blur. I dont believe in pure platonic bonds between men and women. Somewhere in the mix theres always a bed, perhaps already made, perhaps soon to be. Its like lighting a fire beside a stack of hayyoull eventually watch it all burn. Rarely there are exceptions, but theyre few.
Harry would often glance at Bea, licking his lips in a way that made me slap his wrist. Hed laugh it off:
Emily, stop overthinking! Were just friends.
Then, chuckling, hed add, No sinners heart here
In Bea I trusted; I knew she would never cross the line. Harry, however, liked to pick berries in other peoples gardenshence why we split after twenty years together. He remarried a berry of his own, a younger woman who was already scheming about the inheritance. By then our children had moved out. I packed Harrys suitcase, gave him my blessing for his second marriage, and felt the first sting of solitary womanhood.
Bea and Tom would drop by often, pretending to feel sorry for me. I wasnt truly miserable, but every holiday seemed to sharpen my loneliness. I found myself wandering from room to room, the empty walls echoing my thoughts. Its on those days you feel the ache of having no one to spar with, no one to vent to, no one to weep with.
Three years later Tom was widowed. Death, once it arrives, does not let you shake it off. Bea had suffered a prolonged illness, and on her deathbed she left Tom to me, saying:
Emily, look after Tom. I dont want him ending up with another woman. Youve always meant something to him, I could feel it. Live together.
Tom mourned for the allotted time, erected a granite monument for his late wife, and planted fresh flowers on her grave. Over time he began visiting me. I opened my heart, tried to help him through the loss, offering warmth, care, even love. We shared memories, chuckled over old jokes, sobbed over past hurts.
We walked many miles together, dividing joys and sorrows equally. Our bond grew tighter, at first.
But as months passed, the connection grew heavy. I found myself irritated by Toms every word, arguing over nothing, nitpicking for the sake of it. It became clear: this wasnt for me. The scent in the house felt wrong, the bed was cold, humor was absent. It seemed Tom talked about things he couldnt even seehis speech felt blind to colour. He babbled from dawn till dusk, yet there was nothing worth hearing. He was fussy about food, choosy about clothes, perpetually pedantic. It was as if the moon shone, but never the sun. Perhaps Bea loved him enough to endure his quirks.
My soul ached. I realised Id grown accustomed to being alone, without extra housemates. My affection for Tom vanished without a trace. When his presence simply grated on me, I suggested a peaceful parting. I decided to give him one unforgettable nightso hed rememberthen walk away forever.
Tom, however, loved me fiercely, believing everything between us was perfect and affectionate. He answered every jab with an innocent smile, kissed my hand, never let a grudge linger. He never argued, never took offense. At times hed grin naively:
Emily, dont be angry. Ill sort everything out. Youll never be able to break away from me. Dont let go, dont loosen your grip. Who else will love you like I do?
And truly, who? His words usually melted me like a candle in the wind.
A few weeks later, during his lunch break, Tom called:
Emily! Whats happened? Are you all right?
Fine, I whispered, feeling guilty. Come over early. Ive missed you terribly.
He sighed, Youre like my suitcase with a torn handlehard to throw away, yet awkward to carry
Our paths have become tangled, our roads now a single thread.
What destiny will command? To abandon a widower to fate? The poor soul would simply vanish