The man came home and, without even taking off his coat, blurted out: “We need to talk.”
He walked through the door, still in his shoes and still bundled up, and announced:
“Emily! We need to have a serious chat…”
Then, barely pausing for breath, his eyes went wide:
“I’m in love!”
*Well, this is it,* Emily thought. *Midlife crisis has officially arrived at our doorstep. Cheers to that.* But she said nothing, just studied his face intentlysomething she hadnt done in five (or was it eight?) years.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when youre about to die, but for Emily, it was their entire relationship that played out. Theyd met in the most mundane way possibleonline. Shed lost three years, and her future husband had gained three inches in height. Somehow, against all odds, theyd managed to tick each others boxes and… find each other. Emily couldnt remember who messaged first, but she knew his opening line wasnt crudejust a touch self-deprecating, which she liked.
By thirty-three and moderately attractive, she had realistic expectations about the marriage market. She knew she wasnt at the front of the queue, but she wasnt at the back either. So, for their first date, shed ear-muffed herself with optimism, donned rose-tinted glasses, slipped into her best lingerie, and packed homemade biscuits and a novel in her handbagjust in case.
Somehow, it went smoothly (who knew decent first impressions worked?), and their romance developed quickly. They had fun together, so after six months of steady datingplus relentless parental nagging about grandchildrenhe proposed. The families met, approved, and, terrified someone might change their mind, they booked the first available Saturday at the registry office.
By Emilys standards, they had a good marriage. The weather in their household was reliably tropicalno scorching African passions, just a steady, comfortable warmth. Respectful. Friendly. What more could one ask for?
Her husband, being a typical bloke, was straightforward. Within weeks of marriage, he ditched the whole *empathetic-romantic-macho-with-a-heart-of-gold* act and settled into being exactly who he wasa decent, hardworking chap in comfy sweatpants.
Emily, being the more complicated of the two, took longer to shed her *mysterious-sexy-genius-homemaker* persona. But pregnancy sped things up, and within a year, shed happily abandoned all pretence, swapping her high heels for a cosy dressing gown.
The fact that neither of them missed the old façades convinced Emily shed made the right choice. Life rolled ontwo kids, work promotions, holidays, hobbiesall within respectable statistical norms.
Twelve years in, her husband had never so much as flirted with another woman. Not that Emily was the jealous type, but she could imagine itand the mental image made her smirk. Because her husband, realising early on that he was useless at compliments, had changed tactics. Now, he just *widened his eyes*like a startled meerkat.
Over the years, Emily had learned to read his entire emotional spectrum just by the roundness of his pupils: wild astonishment, quiet approval, accidental surprise, sudden panic, full-blown outrage. So when he announced his newfound love, she pictured him making eyes at some poor woman, pupils expanding like dinner plates.
Her throat went dry. Nervously, she asked:
“So… whats her name, then?”
His eyes practically crawled up his forehead. Fumbling, trembling, he managed:
“Howhow did you? You guessed its a *her*?! No, wait… You dont understand. I saw her, and I justlook at her! Shes perfect. Soft. Beautiful. Just… just like you.”
From under his shirt, he produced a small grey ratpink ears, twitching nose, beady black eyes.
Emily stopped listening. She stared at her husband, at his new little friend, at their matching expressions, and was utterly, ridiculously happy that hed fallen in love with a creature that looked *exactly* like her.
