The Turning Point
When did it start? Could she pick a day or was it a slow fade to resentment and detachment? They had been together for nine years, survived the so called “seven year itch” but had floundered all the same. She mentally flicked back through the years. Ninety-four, good. Ninety-five, better. Ninety-six to ninety-nine were the best, surely. Even Oliver would agree with her there. So it must have been after that, and everything in between, till now. A three year slide.
She caught herself being over critical. Making a point of complaining about things that she would have overlooked before. She winced as memories resurfaced of the fuss she had made over the car. He hadn’t been miserly about the budget. They both knew they didn’t need a gas guzzler. But she had chosen to make a meal of his practicality and turn it into a battle about gender and status. And that was just one example. Pick, pick, pick. Niggle, niggle. The tiny cuts that eventually unravel the whole.
And he had his faults too, didn’t he just. He became distracted and disinterested, choosing his friends over her. Spending quality time with them and duty time at home, or so it seemed. The final straw was the affair, of course. That familiar feeling of hot lava pulsing through her chest returned, as she imagined Oliver and Emma, her supposed best friend, together. He said it was her fault, she had driven him to it. Maybe, maybe not. And did it really matter anyway? So much hurt had been inflicted, there was no going back now.
So here she was, packing her things and crying like a baby. Stupid, stupid people, she said to herself. We could have made it, but we let it all slip away like an unrecognised treasure. She grabbed at a paperback on the bookshelf which sent a sheet of notepaper fluttering to the floor.
‘Dear Emma
I can’t do this anymore. Its killing me and, more importantly, it will kill Bec. She means everything to me. We can’t see each other anymore. It must end now. I’m so sorry.
Oliver’
Written hurriedly. A draft, perhaps? Or a draft, hopefully? Was she really allowing a shard of optimism to pierce her heart? She had been so certain about the turning point or, rather, the point of no return. But perhaps she was wrong.
THE END