**”Cutlets, Gynaecology, and the Peak of Desire”**
When Nigel Burton dropped off his latest fling outside her flat, he even gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and waved goodbye. The lingering scent of her perfume still warmed his chest, while a faint taste of betrayal lingered on his lips. He took a deep breath, turned the ignition, and set off home.
Outside his house in Manchester, he hesitated. For a moment, he stood there, scrambling for the right words. He needed to say it clearly, like a man—boldly, decisively. He couldn’t stand his dull, predictable marriage any longer. He craved passion, something that set his pulse racing. And he’d found it—in the alluring Dr. Maya Whitmore.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he burst through the front door without waiting for the lift.
“Hello?” he called out, stepping inside. “Emma, you home?”
“In here,” came the relaxed reply from the kitchen. “So, Nigel, are we doing cutlets tonight?”
There it was—the moment of truth. Burton straightened his back, cleared his throat, and declared:
“Emma… I have to tell you something. We need to split up.”
No eruption of emotions followed. No shouting, no accusations. Emma didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“So, no cutlets, then?” she asked idly, poking her head out from the kitchen.
“That’s up to you. Cook if you like. I’m leaving. For another woman.”
Most wives would have thrown a fit. Maybe hurled a plate. But Emma wasn’t most wives.
“Please tell me you didn’t forget my boots from the cobblers *again*,” she said flatly.
“Bloody hell… I did,” Nigel muttered, flushing. “But I can go now! Right now!”
“Oh, I believe you—you’d probably fetch the wrong pair. Typical Burton,” she sighed. “You’re no man—just a bloke with an engineering degree.”
Nigel felt his grand speech crumbling. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his evening—nor the dramatic farewell to his married life.
“Emma, you’re not listening! I mean it. I don’t love you anymore. I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving!”
“Brilliant,” she replied. “Since your shoes aren’t at the cobblers, you’re free to walk wherever you like.”
He nearly choked. God, arguing with her was impossible! Once, it was her calm that drew him in—her quiet strength, razor-sharp logic, and knack for keeping everything in order. Now, it all felt like a brick wall he’d slammed into at full speed.
“I—I’m grateful for everything,” he tried again. “But I’m leaving. For love. The real kind.”
“Sarah Mills?” Emma asked, unfazed.
“W-what? No!” he stammered. “How do you even know her?”
“Or Lucy Braithwaite? You *were* late that Friday…”
He fell silent. A cold sweat prickled down his back.
“No. Not Braithwaite. Not Mills. It’s Maya. Dr. Maya Whitmore. Thirty-five, one child, two abortions. She’s the love of my life.”
“You’re cracked, Burton,” Emma said, pouring herself tea. “Do you even know what you’ve got yourself into?”
“I know I love her,” he insisted. “And I’m staying with her.”
“Ever read her medical history?”
“…No.”
“I have. Because I’m a gynaecologist. With experience. I know where you’ve been—even if you don’t. In this city, I’ve seen *all* the women. You’ve only seen *some*. Trust me—Whitmore isn’t the catch you think. She’s a medical marvel.”
“So, what now?” he asked weakly.
“First,” Emma said, “have a shower. Second, I’ll ring Dr. Simmons at the clinic—see if he’ll fit you in. Third—sit down, think it over, and stop making a fool of yourself.”
“But I—I just—”
“Go shower,” she cut in. “I’ll start the cutlets. If you want a proper woman, come back. I’ll find you one. No surprises.”
And so, Burton trudged silently to the bathroom. In his fantasies, he’d left with fireworks, passion, drama. But in reality? He left—for the soap.
*Sometimes, the grandest escapes lead nowhere but the mirror—and the clearest truth comes from the one who knows you best.*
