That same narrow, poorly lit corridor that lead to Therese's apartment, was even more claustrophobic than the last time Carol was here, as if those walls were closing in on her threatening to squeeze the last breath of life she had left. She shivered.

`God, Carol, you look...different. Are you sure everything is fine?` - Therese had a perplexed expression on her face.

`Different?`- Carol asked but there was no answer from Therese. Instead, she looked at Carol with high intensity.

`Everything is fine Therese.` - her words broke the silence between them. Once again Carol delivered an intentionally false statement. She didn't want to lie to Therese, but didn't know to tell her the truth either.

`It's so messed up. So odd...`- Carol said and looked away.

`What is?`

`Life. In itself. To it's very core. It's so damn odd. See, when you're young...`

`You're not-`

`Old?` - Carol cut her off before Therese could finish. `...When you're younger everything is, or seems elementary. It's simple to make a decision. It's hard to regret. It's easy to mistake admiration for love. What I'm trying to say is your expectations are lower, you haven't yet worked out how the world works, there's that appalling naivety one has... And as the time ticks away you realise how different things are and how odd it all is, how it constantly changes and we have no control over it. For example, when I met Harge ten or so years ago at a party, I must admit, I didn't like him. Didn't like him at all. At least not at first. There was something about him, as if he had this aura of arrogance around him that I found thoroughly aggravating. In addition, there was no immediate spark, it took a good while for the feelings to develop. And when it did, it wasn't anything what poems are written about, butterflies and all that. It always felt there could be more you know. Like a continual circle, chasing something or someone, even though you know damn well you won't succeed; and just as you think you grasped it, it then slips away from your fingertips. I must've known he wasn't the person for me, I had to know...

And then what did I do? I married him. Isn't that funny and tragic at the same time? Just look where we are now – mid through a divorce which, I'm sure, will get ugly; Harge is not an easy man to divorce, plus there's Rindy... Here we are tearing our lives apart, lives that once were... You see what I mean? My younger self somewhat found the life of being Mrs Aird, with or without love, apt. What does that say about me? Am I an easy game? It takes courage to recognise the real as opposed to the convenient, and my failed marriage is a manifest of my lack of it.` - what followed was Carol's soliloquy, as if she spoke to herself regardless of any hearers, as if Therese wasn't there. Her speech was far from eloquent - sporadic sentences, frequent silences between the words, drifted thoughts – yet very intimate, honest and poignant at times. Carol felt naked in front of Therese but knew she could let herself go completely without the fear of being judged or pitied.

`We got married in spring. Abby, of course, was my bridesmaid. Her groomsman was Harge's cousin Gary, spoiled rich kid from California and let's just say they didn't have good chemistry mainly because all he talked about was money – my this, my that, my other. Sure, financial security is important but is that all? What does wealth, new cars, houses, fancy clothes and trips abroad really mean? Does it somehow make you better than anyone else? Ironically, he inherited all his wealth he was gloating over after his grand father passed away. What an ass hole he was. His bloated ego was hurt when Abby told him he can't afford her. I'd pay to see that bewildered expression of his once again.

I remember walking down the aisle, shaking like a leaf, my heart beat so fast I thought it'll jump out of my chest before I make it to the altar. I've never told this to anybody, but I must admit – I wasn't nervous because it was my wedding day, happiest day in one's life some people call it, not because I couldn't wait to spend the rest of my life with my chosen one, or someone who chose me, but simply because I was scared. Scared I was making a mistake and that it was too late to do anything about it. Isn't it the worst thought one could have at that moment?

Harge's parents gave us half the money we needed for the house as a wedding gift and in the late summer we moved in. His mother made constant effort to remind me it was her I needed to thank for having a roof above my head. I honestly don't know what her problem was, and still is, with me. I suppose I didn't live up to her expectations whatever they were. I've never met anyone so deeply conservative in my entire life. Anything that doesn't conform to her own version of society norms is classed as outrageous and must be fought. Narrow minded, miserable old prune. What a shame Rindy got her as a grand mother.

Anyway, the house was a nice big one. I chose the décor all by myself for the entire house because, well, I had to really. Harge was, and I quote, 'too busy and couldn't give a damn' about it. As long as you pick 'normal' colours, do whatever you want with it he said. What is normal? Isn't it just a word in a dictionary anyway? Isn't normal something to get away from, not something to aspire to? So, I went and picked every colour, every stick of furniture, every rug, every fabric, every plate and fork for that house. The house you saw is all me, my heart and soul. Decorating led me into meeting Mrs Anderson, an owner of a furniture shop in Manhattan, lovely lady in her late sixties. We soon became friends. Later on, by a fluke, me and Abby took over the directorship of the shop and I absolutely adored it. I couldn't be happier. I felt I found something to do with my life, to fill the void so to speak. Both me and Abby gave ourselves completely and for a year or two we were doing really well. We're flying! Abby would say frequently. Harge, on the other hand and despite the fact his wife was buoyant , found himself very dissatisfied. He never wanted me to work you know? For him, the idea of his wife, Mrs H.F Aird , labouring in a furniture shop was scandalous. He'd preferably have me at home, as if I was some sort of trophy, an accessory to sit nicely on his mantelpiece. None of his friends wives worked, so rather than me doing what I actually like, he wanted me to attend all those excruciating tea parties every Tuesday afternoon in order to not only please him but also to support his social status. You have no idea how alienesque I felt being surrounded by those snobs who were 'discussing serious matters and issues' while in reality all they did was gossip and criticize the ones outside their eminent circle. I simply didn't fit you know? Did you ever feel like that? Don't answer that, your eyes says it all...`

`Shortly, to mine and Abby's dismay, the shop bankrupted. We just couldn't keep up with the competitors. I was devastated. I think I still am. I loved that little shop. I got the feeling Harge was delighted it happened, even though he must've known how much it meant to me.

There I was - a full time house-sitter again, all alone in the house with no actual occupation. I was going mad. Since he got the promotion at the firm, he spent less and less time at home, then the business trips started. I spent more time with our housekeeper than my husband, isn't that silly? What kind of marriage is that? Him being away so much really drove us apart. I wondered what was the point in all this? I was depressed and alcohol was the only cure for my despair. I'd find myself, sometimes as early as noon, already sipping my second, sometimes third Martini. What else was I going to do? Harge didn't even like me having Abby around. She was filling my head with the wrong kind of ideas he'd say. I never asked him to elaborate on what he thought those ideas were. I'd sometimes wonder who was more delusional – me or him. Can I smoke?` - she reached for a cigarette.

`Sure`

`Don't take this the wrong way, there were happy days too... Not enough sadly. He took some time off work while I was pregnant with Rindy and I thought – this is not too bad, you know, we will work things out. And it did get better. At least for a while. I couldn't ask for a better father for Rindy, if at least half the children had fathers like Harge, a world would be a better place.

By the time Rindy was two me and Harge became strangers, our so called marriage was nothing more than a sister-brother relationship. The flames eventually went out. I didn't see him as my husband, as a man anymore. Rindy's father was the only role he played. I asked him to move on to one of the guest rooms, there was no point to share a bedroom and Rindy was too little to ask questions why mommy and daddy are not sleeping in the same bed. It was a great battle, but I won. Enormously displeased he soon occupied the guest room. We argued a lot over this and it became our daily routine. He kept insisting we work things out and claimed it to be 'just a phase' while I kept drifting further and further away. I didn't want Rindy to grow up seeing us like this, so I filed for divorce. Perhaps it's all my fault? I don't know. I could've tried more. I could've given more. Maybe I'm seeking things I can't have, but aren't we all? Isn't that odd...?` - Carol slouched in a chair and closed her eyes.

Therese, all this time, sat patiently taking in every word, not once her eyes left Carol. She watched her mood shift from happy to tragic, her eyes moisten with tears and then become fierce, her voice change from a whisper into a shout. That young, inexperienced, sometimes naïve shop girl understood everything. Or so it seemed to Carol. She didn't say a single word, as if she'd taken the vow of silence.

Carol opened her eyes and sat up straight. Their gaze locked for several long moments and she spoke again.

`I'm going away for a while. Would you...like to come with me?`

Long pause.

`Yes. Yes I would.`

`What did you just say?`

`Yes. I would like to come with you` -

`You have no idea how...`

`I do`

And just like that sheer happiness filled every fibre of her being and that moment, without doubt, was exactly what poems are written about. She felt butterflies in her stomach.