Fiction · Written by Anica Angela Nicole Modena Hill
The Soft Protocol
Mara was writing a shopping list when Adrian’s mother called about the curtains.
“I found the spare pair,” she said. “You can take them when you visit.” his mother said.
“Did Adrian see them last weekend?”
A pause.
“He wasn’t here last weekend.”
Mara stopped writing. The pen rested beside the word coffee.
“Oh,” she said. “I must have mixed up the dates.”
They finished the conversation politely. His mother described the color of the curtains. Mara promised to measure the window.
After the call, she sat at the table for several minutes.
Adrian had left on Friday with a small overnight bag. He had sent her a photograph of a roadside café and complained about the traffic. On Sunday, he had come home carrying oranges.
“From Mum,” he had said.
The oranges were still in a bowl beside the sink.
Eight months earlier, Adrian had told her he had cheated.
He described it as something that had happened once. He cried while telling her. Mara remembered passing him a tissue, then wondering why she was comforting him before she had understood what he was saying.
She stayed with her sister for four nights.
When she returned, they talked about what continuing the marriage would require. Adrian agreed to end contact with the other woman. He promised to answer her questions honestly, even when the answers embarrassed him.
Mara asked those questions more than once. Sometimes she remembered something while brushing her teeth or waiting for a delivery, and they would have another difficult conversation at an inconvenient hour.
Gradually, their days became easier.
They argued about ordinary things again. They bought a lamp. They planned a short holiday. One afternoon, Mara realised she had spent an entire day without wondering where he was.
She had been pleased with that small discovery.
Now she opened the email account they used for bills and household bookings.
She searched the dates of his trip.
There was a hotel confirmation beneath a receipt for their internet payment. Two nights. Two guests.
Mara read the message, closed it, then opened it again.
When Adrian came home that evening, she was still at the table.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Your mother called.”
He set his keys down.
“She said you weren’t there last weekend.”
For a moment, he looked towards the hallway.
Mara had expected an explanation. She had even imagined several on his behalf during the afternoon: a change of plans, an argument with his mother, something foolish he had been ashamed to mention.
Then he said, “I was going to tell you.”
She pulled out the chair opposite her.
“When?”
He sat down.
“I don’t know.”
“Was it her?”
“Yes.”
Mara pressed her palms against her knees beneath the table.
“Did you ever stop seeing her?”
“At first.”
“For how long?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“A few months.”
She looked at the calendar on the wall. There were dinners on it, appointments, a reminder to renew the car insurance. She tried to remember which of those days belonged to the months he meant.
“While we were planning the holiday?”
“Yes.”
“And when you said you were working late?”
“Sometimes.”
She got up to fetch a glass of water. Her hand shook as she filled it, and she put it down before drinking.
Behind her, Adrian began to cry.
“I love you,” he said when she returned.
Mara sat down carefully.
“I heard you.”
“Then please let me fix this.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Give me another chance.”
She watched him reach for the tissue box.
The first time, she had spent weeks explaining what she needed. She had found the words when he said he did not know how to begin. She had made room for his shame while trying to understand her own hurt.
Now he was waiting for her answer again.
“I haven’t worked out everything,” she said. “I found out this afternoon.”
“We can talk all night if you need to.”
“I need to stop talking for a while.”
He followed her as far as the bedroom door.
“Are you leaving?”
“I’m staying with my sister tonight.”
“And tomorrow?”
“I’ll decide tomorrow.”
Mara took a bag from the top of the wardrobe.
She packed clothes for work, her charger and the book she had been reading. Then she stood in front of the open drawer, unable to remember what else people took when they left home unexpectedly.
Her sister answered on the second ring.
“Can I stay?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to explain it on the phone.”
“You can tell me when you get here.”
“Maybe not tonight.”
“All right. I’ll make up the bed.”
Mara sat on the edge of her own bed after the call.
She still loved Adrian. She wished, with an intensity that embarrassed her, that he would come to the doorway and say something that changed what she knew.
From the kitchen, she heard him move a chair.
She checked her bag. Wallet. Charger. Work clothes. She added her toothbrush and booked a car.
Adrian stood when she came into the hallway.
“Please don’t give up on us.”
Mara held the bag against her leg.
“I spent eight months trying,” she said.
Her phone vibrated. The driver was downstairs.
She picked up her keys. Walked away. Never went back to Adrian.
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