Veiled Affection

Chapter One

These pages wouldn't make any sense if I didn't clear up some stuff first. Although these writings are for me only, I think it's best to reminisce about everything prior to everything. Otherwise, without reminding myself of the before, I couldn't possibly sympathize with the after. So, for now, I'll just do what I am used to: write so that everyone would understand everything.

A year ago, everything was different. And now that I look back, I realize that a year can do a lot to a person - to a life. Not only my life, but multiple lives that have experienced both bliss and misery in this past year. I guess that's common in most lives, but a year ago, I couldn't say I had any of that: no high spirits and no melancholy; rarely moments of good cheer and barely moments of bad news. Everything was just... there. Stagnantly, steadily, unchangingly there.

I was a writer, as I still am to this day, and as I will still be until my days are over. Fiction novels, mostly, with an occasional detour into non-fictive scribbles. A former hobby that I have proudly made my present-day job. And that all because of the man I married.

Gregory and I met through my writings. He read one of my early works, thought it to be good, and, considering his profession as a book publisher, made me into the writer that I am today.

I was 25 when we met - he was a few years older - and now, 10 years later, it feels like we've lived a whole lifetime together. Not because the so-called cheerful years fly by. No, it was quite the opposite. In being with him, a day seemed a week, a week seemed a month and a month seemed a year. That all because I was stuck in a dull, wearisome, sluggish marriage.

I was in love with him all right, however, not quite. Sometimes people fall in love with ideas, not people. I was in love with the idea of marrying your first love. I was in love with the idea of growing old with your first love. Too bad my first love was tiresome, and an idiot, also. The latter will become all too clear why that is so as this story progresses. He wasn't an idiot in the first 9 years since I met him, only in the past year. But tiresome was second nature to him. That he was, through and through. And while we're at it, he was quite selfish, too. He never considered how his wife might feel outside of being his wife.

And I cannot be excuses: I have my flaws too. So I guess at the end of the day I can't grumble on about it.

Well, maybe just a little.

An unhappily married writer. That was pretty much it. My life summed up in nothing more but a sentence.

I suspect there are people who wouldn't understand why I stayed, after all that I have described, but they would be people who only know unhappy marriages from stories on the internet. If you were in one, it was a lot more than a phrase on the internet, and if you had a steady income, a nice house and a good job, you'd do anything to keep it.

But one year ago, when this story starts, the moment almost came when I realized I wanted - and most definitely needed - a divorce.
__________

It was early-October, starting to get colder as fall had just been introduced, and I was at home. Our new home, bought two weeks prior, after Greg and I had saved ourselves some income. The business successes of previous years could be seen in the decadent two-story house, established in the calming countryside of England.

I was upstairs in the study, writing, and coming near the end of a book I had been working on. With paper and pen in my hands, I was happy. Happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The study-room door opened.

''Baby, do you know where my -'' At the sight of my occupation he stopped mid-sentence. ''I can't believe you still write with a pen. You should switch to a laptop. Save yourself some time.''

I looked up from my notebook and sighed. ''You know why I don't.''

''Yeah sure, it's a true waste. 'Respect the old ways' and all that. It's time inefficient, that's what it is.''

I smiled, having had this conversation for the umpteenth time. ''A good story can't be rushed.''

''Right,'' He replied conceding. ''Anyhow, have you seen my spare glasses?''

''Not since moving day.''

''Well, you tell me if you find it.'' He answered, and before I could agree, he was on his way out again.

''Greg,'' I called out, and he turned back around. ''I was thinking of taking a walk later on. Get to know the environment a little. I would like some company.''

Well, I asked for company, and company I got. However not by Greg. He told me he was too busy handling off his usual day-to-day tasks and duties. As much as they can be called that.

Each day he lived by a schedule - well-constructed and refined over the past years - resulting in a precise manner of ways. It was quintessential Gregory. Seven hours he devoted to working; three to reading; one to gardening. He hardly seemed to want company during those times, and barely had any time for interference or conversation. I believe he was content in his way. This routine sufficed for him. And nothing annoyed him so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced him to vary its clockwork regularity.

So, later that day near dusk, I put on my coat and went out the door by myself. I walked, became aware of my surroundings, and found myself pleasantly surprised at the charm of my new neighborhood, where the houses are at least a kilometer apart from each other, and all are away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

After some time had passed, my eyes fell on a nearby bench. I grabbed the opportunity and sat quietly, overlooking the hilly area.

The blatant seasonal changes attracted my notice; the subtle color shift of the leaves; the orange-to-pink hues in the sky; the coolness creeping on my skin.

And then a voice, rich and deep, that sounded behind me.

''It's enchanting, isn't it?''