Unlucky For Some (Short Story)
09th March 2026
In: Short Stories
You imagine, having made a clean breast of it, been honest with me and admitted the affair, that I will absolve you like some priest who listens to such confessions, goes through the rituals of forgiveness, trusts your so-solemn vow it will never happen again, and given a few days of contrite offerings — flowers, a piece of expensive jewellery, the promise of an exotic holiday — then life will go on as usual.
What is this now — the fourth time in going-on thirteen years? The ones I know about. Have there been others? One night stands — the odd fling at the firm’s Christmas party — a quickie in the stationery cupboard — a hot fumble in the lift, perhaps? And how many of our friends and family know or suspect? How subtle have you been concerning your philanderings? I must be a fool in their eyes. I’m a fool in my own. A prize cuckold. But I’ve been biding my time. You’re clean out of chances. You’ll never change, and I know that.
I’ve never been one for snooping. Not like my mother with my father — going through his pockets regularly, steaming open his mail, poking around in his desk, sneaking a look in his diary etc. etc. She hovered within earshot whenever he took a phone call, always pretending to be busy with something. You could almost see her ears flapping. I picked up on all this as a young child — this suspicion that tainted their relationship. I promised myself I would never be like that. And I wasn’t — so I missed any clues that might have tipped me off early. Mother never did like you — she sniffed you out right at the beginning, when I first took you home. She announced in front of all of us that you weren’t husband material. You laughed, didn’t take her seriously. Father looked embarrassed. I didn’t know what to think, but married you anyway.
It’s our 13th anniversary coming up. You haven’t mentioned it, no little hints that you’ve anything planned. Nothing in your diary (for once I broke my non-snooping code and took a peek). I’ll be away at a conference in Edinburgh. The firm’s sending me. I’ll be away two nights.
When I told you this story you didn’t seem especially upset. But then I didn’t expect anything different. We’ll celebrate our anniversary when I get back, I suggested — go somewhere classy for dinner. You were eager to agree. I’ll leave you a couple of meals you can microwave, I said. Probably a curry or a casserole. Okay? I knew how much you liked my curries — their fruitiness and rich creamy sauce. That’ud be great, you said.
I don’t do a great deal of cooking. I don’t have the time as a rule, but I can put a tasty dish together at a pinch. You’d been trying hard of late to please me, as though you sensed my restlessness. I thought you deserved a reward for effort, if nothing else. I prepared the curry with a lot of care, grinding the peanuts to a fine dust before mixing them in. Pineapple dominated in the flavour stakes. I divided it into two plastic containers and, when cool enough, put them in the fridge. You couldn’t miss them.
I packed my clothes, selected a few sentimental objects that meant something to me, but you wouldn’t miss. It really didn’t amount to much. The very last thing I did was to remove your medicines from the bathroom cabinet, disposing of both inhalers in the recycling. I felt only a passing pity.
I’d never liked out house. You chose it, overruling my objections. It was practical, within our price range, you argued. I thought it was ugly and soulless. I wouldn’t miss it. It was raining, so I called a taxi.
Clive was waiting, tickets in hand, so dependable. We needed to hurry, he said, check in within the next hour. We were like children bunking off school. A bit giddy. I barely thought about you at all.
They called the flight. We boarded knowing it was going to be a long haul. Clive’s a frequent flier. I’ve never been to Brazil. I understand they grow a lot of peanuts.
What is this now — the fourth time in going-on thirteen years? The ones I know about. Have there been others? One night stands — the odd fling at the firm’s Christmas party — a quickie in the stationery cupboard — a hot fumble in the lift, perhaps? And how many of our friends and family know or suspect? How subtle have you been concerning your philanderings? I must be a fool in their eyes. I’m a fool in my own. A prize cuckold. But I’ve been biding my time. You’re clean out of chances. You’ll never change, and I know that.
I’ve never been one for snooping. Not like my mother with my father — going through his pockets regularly, steaming open his mail, poking around in his desk, sneaking a look in his diary etc. etc. She hovered within earshot whenever he took a phone call, always pretending to be busy with something. You could almost see her ears flapping. I picked up on all this as a young child — this suspicion that tainted their relationship. I promised myself I would never be like that. And I wasn’t — so I missed any clues that might have tipped me off early. Mother never did like you — she sniffed you out right at the beginning, when I first took you home. She announced in front of all of us that you weren’t husband material. You laughed, didn’t take her seriously. Father looked embarrassed. I didn’t know what to think, but married you anyway.
It’s our 13th anniversary coming up. You haven’t mentioned it, no little hints that you’ve anything planned. Nothing in your diary (for once I broke my non-snooping code and took a peek). I’ll be away at a conference in Edinburgh. The firm’s sending me. I’ll be away two nights.
When I told you this story you didn’t seem especially upset. But then I didn’t expect anything different. We’ll celebrate our anniversary when I get back, I suggested — go somewhere classy for dinner. You were eager to agree. I’ll leave you a couple of meals you can microwave, I said. Probably a curry or a casserole. Okay? I knew how much you liked my curries — their fruitiness and rich creamy sauce. That’ud be great, you said.
I don’t do a great deal of cooking. I don’t have the time as a rule, but I can put a tasty dish together at a pinch. You’d been trying hard of late to please me, as though you sensed my restlessness. I thought you deserved a reward for effort, if nothing else. I prepared the curry with a lot of care, grinding the peanuts to a fine dust before mixing them in. Pineapple dominated in the flavour stakes. I divided it into two plastic containers and, when cool enough, put them in the fridge. You couldn’t miss them.
I packed my clothes, selected a few sentimental objects that meant something to me, but you wouldn’t miss. It really didn’t amount to much. The very last thing I did was to remove your medicines from the bathroom cabinet, disposing of both inhalers in the recycling. I felt only a passing pity.
I’d never liked out house. You chose it, overruling my objections. It was practical, within our price range, you argued. I thought it was ugly and soulless. I wouldn’t miss it. It was raining, so I called a taxi.
Clive was waiting, tickets in hand, so dependable. We needed to hurry, he said, check in within the next hour. We were like children bunking off school. A bit giddy. I barely thought about you at all.
They called the flight. We boarded knowing it was going to be a long haul. Clive’s a frequent flier. I’ve never been to Brazil. I understand they grow a lot of peanuts.