Coming to a halt in front of me, Tina remained silent. Her presence was palpable as she, studied me intently. I ignored the unraveling effect she had on me, determined not to let her in. Her fragrance, a delicate harmony of shower gel, perfume, and her, mingled in the air, a reminder of her undeniable femininity. ’Do you need anything?’ I asked, convinced the tone of my voice would be enough to push her away.

Unexpectedly, she moved closer, a deliberate step that defied my expectations.’Yes.’ She said, and then, her lips met mine, in a gentle press. Softness yielded to warmth as her hands slid around my neck, her body an invitation I struggled to resist. Her kiss became more demanding, a silent plea that tugged at the frayed edges of my restraint.

Yet, her words resurfaced like a cruel echo, torturing my broken heart; I don’t feel married to you. The weight of that confession threatened to suffocate me even as her tongue stroke along my lips. Abruptly, I pulled away, breaking the intimate connection.

Confusion clouded Tina’s features as her eyes fluttered open, as though I had rudely awakened her from a dream she had only just begun to explore.

’Is this you checking if you still feel anything?’ I asked bitterly.

She recovered quickly, a flash of anger igniting in her eyes. ’No, I was showing you what you’re supposed to do when you return home from a trip.’

’Supposed to do?’ I scoffed. ’An obligation? Is that what it is Tina?’

’”We’re not living together, we’re not sleeping together. Obviously, I’m not even allowed to kiss you, and then you pretend to be hurt when I tell you I don’t feel married to you,’ her voice held a mix of pain and accusation. ’What is it, Bette? You don’t know how to tell me you want a divorce? I’m strong enough, I can take it.’

’Strong enough?’ I asked in disbelief. I looked at her small, fragile figure, her once-vibrant face now marked by the toll of sadness. Dark circles framed her eyes, evidence of sleepless nights and the burden of unspoken pain. I felt a tightening in my chest, a mixture of guilt and resentment that I had allowed things to deteriorate to this point. My jaw clenched, and I struggled to maintain my composure. My voice grew heavy with sorrow and anger. ’You couldn’t even answer the phone when I called you that night in Normandy – afraid I would want to talk about your miscarriage, about the daughter we lost.’