She was once so sure that she would marry him. He was all she had ever wanted, and all she could ask for in a man. He was perfect.

It’s unclear what changed, but it changed quickly. She began to desire other men, not in the desperate way that she had years ago out of fear of exclusivity but in a way that made her feel unrequited, unsatisfied. She began to fantasise about dresses and heels and lipstick and hotel bars in cities, and about a kiss that wasn’t a formality to be upheld. The thoughts of white dresses were overshadowed by nightmares of a life of bad sex. She had never felt comfortable enough with him to make a request for change, and a change now seemed too little, too late.

There was nothing wrong with him. He had given her no reason to leave. But neither had he given her a reason to stay.

She left him just after two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was a “trial”.

But only to him.


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