The Captain's Wife

The Captain’s Wife

There was a time when the new year meant something. Every year he found me in the crowded village pub without looking, pulled me in, held me there a second longer than necessary. Warm, certain, his whole body still choosing mine.

He still moves through the room the way he always has—men stepping aside, women turning toward him. But this year he leaves it late, finds me in time. There’s no urgency, just a brief kiss, more habit than feeling, the sort you give a maiden aunt.

I pull him closer. His body, once responsive in my hands, feels rigid now. I kiss him as if it might be the last. He doesn’t return it. Just goes through the motions.

He isn’t unkind. That would be easier. He’s simply elsewhere. The way men are when their attention has already shifted, when someone or something has begun to replace you in their mind.

There was less money once, fewer things. A smaller house, but more laughter. More of him.

Now there is a life outsiders admire. The children want for nothing.

Except, soon enough, they will.

He doesn’t know that yet.

I do.

I have seen her.

You can’t miss her. Not in a village like this. She arrives all short skirts and confidence, the sort of brightness that suggests a new beginning to an old fool who should know better.

I used to babysit her.
She was spoilt, always pushing far enough to see what she could get away with.
Once she ran into the road without looking. I caught her in time—still remember how light she felt, how close the car came.
No shock. No gratitude. Just a scowl, threats to tell her mother.

There have been distractions before, but not like this.

She was overheard in the pub last week, laughing, glancing over at me—“the captain’s wife won’t be laughing soon, not when I’m living in her house and driving her car.”

He thinks I don’t know.

She knows that I do.

She leaves me little presents. Earrings in the car seat. Lip gloss in the glove compartment. Small things—easy enough for him to explain away.

I say nothing.

I simply remove them and drop them in the bin. Out of sight. Away from the children.

I have always been good at keeping things to myself.

Everyone in the village knows about her plan.

It’s in the way people smile at me now. Just slightly softer. Just slightly too long.

Even tonight, I watch him follow her outside. Not immediately. That would look careless. But not long after.

Five minutes later he comes running back in.

“Somebody help—call an ambulance!”

I turn, exactly as they expect me to.

Surprised.

Concerned.

She had a peanut allergy as a child.

Severe.

Tonight, before we kissed, I had eaten.

Funny, the things you remember.

Maybe this year won’t be so bad after all.