The Window

Candlelight dances along the walls, glinting off the polished cutlery in soft, deliberate flashes. At the centre of the table, roses rest in a crystal vase, the flame splintering through its cut grooves and catching in the diamond pattern so it glitters with every flicker. A crisp white tablecloth lies smooth and uncreased beneath it all. Two plates sit opposite one another, each bearing a carefully plated, restaurant-quality meal — composed, precise, waiting.

He sits in his chair, beard freshly trimmed, button-up shirt sharply pressed. His watch reads 9:03. The perfectly plated meal he laboured over has long since gone cold. He twists his wedding ring slowly around his finger, once, then again. The motion is habitual now — a small orbit, a private metronome marking time.

The door finally opens. She steps inside, clothes immaculate, hair drawn tightly into a precise bun. His eyes lift — soften — and then brighten when she pauses, reaches back, and releases it. Her long dark hair spills over her shoulders, undoing the day in a single quiet gesture. It is the only part of the ritual that still feels like theirs.

She glances at the table and exhales.

‘I ate at work.’

The words land like a pin dropped in a cathedral. Small. Echoing.

Disappointment flickers across his face before he smooths it away with a smile. He gathers the untouched plates and carries them to the bench.

‘Bedroom in five,’ she says.

She leaves him standing there. He clears the table slowly, folding the white cloth with more care than necessary. One by one, he blows out the candles. Thin ribbons of smoke curl upward, and his gaze follows them to the ceiling as if they might carry something with them — a wish, a plea, a question.

Later, they lie side by side, breath slowing, the task completed.

‘I love you,’ he murmurs, brushing his fingers gently along her cheek.

‘Thanks,’ she replies, already turning onto her back. She props a pillow beneath her hips and rests her feet against the headboard. Reaching for her phone, she opens the app and taps the date: Ovulation — Positive. Intercourse — Logged.

The glow of the screen lights her face in a cold, clinical blue.

A few weeks later, she meets him in the bathroom doorway and silently holds out the test.

Negative.

‘There’s always next month,’ he says softly.

She opens a small shoebox and drops it inside with the others. Plastic against cardboard. Accumulation. The box is nearly full now. She closes the lid quickly, as though the contents might spill out — or speak.

‘That’s what you always say.’

The following month, the dinner is simpler. The one after that, simpler still. She begins walking straight past the table without looking at it. They meet in the bedroom like clockwork, speak little, finish, log it.

Another test. Another addition to the box.

The ritual tightens around them, month by month, like a belt pulled one notch further.

Eventually he stops setting the table at all. He eats toast standing at the bench and no longer waits for her headlights in the driveway. When she comes in, she moves past him without pause.

‘Hey. Can we talk?’ he asks one evening.

‘It’s the optimal window right now,’ she replies, already halfway down the hall.

‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’

She turns, startled. ‘I thought you wanted a baby.’

‘I do. But not at the cost of us. We don’t eat together. You barely laugh. I can’t remember the last time you let me kiss you.’

Her composure fractures.

‘Do you think I enjoy this?’ she snaps, voice tight. ‘Do you think it’s fun, watching my body fail at something millions of women do without trying?’

‘Not at all. But I don’t feel like your husband anymore.’ He swallows. ‘I love you so much… but right now, I don’t know if I like you.’

Her stern expression splinters. The hurt she has been holding back rises to the surface. Tears spill over. Her breath stutters into ragged gasps.

‘I’m s-s-so sorry,’ she whispers, folding into him. ‘I was trying so hard to give you what I thought you wanted… I forgot about what we needed.’

He holds her, but the ritual hums between them — a low, persistent current neither of them knows how to switch off.

Candlelight dances along the walls, glinting off polished cutlery in soft, deliberate flashes.

He steps from the shower and stops when he sees it.

The table is set again. Perfectly. The white cloth. The roses. The crystal vase. Two plates, composed and waiting. The candles burn steadily, their flames unnervingly still, as though the air itself is holding its breath.

She stands beside the table in a red dress that scatters the candlelight with every small movement. Her hair is loose. Her eyes are bright in a way he hasn’t seen in months — or perhaps he only remembers them that way.

His gaze drifts to the calendar on the wall.

‘I thought the window was next week,’ he says quietly.

‘It is,’ she replies, stepping closer, drawing him in. ‘Tonight is just us.’

She kisses him — not measured, not timed, not logged.

But behind her, the calendar hangs open to the month ahead.

A small circle is already drawn around a date.

A reminder.

A promise.

A return.

The candles burn steadily.