The Girl in the Window

Every morning on my way to work, I settle with my cappuccino in the corner of my favourite café, Angelo's, and watch the world go by. I'm especially riveted by the flat across the street. It's where a pretty brunette comes and goes. I try to imagine things about her. Her age. Her life. Her background. What makes her tick. Once a week at least, a man in cycling gear rings her bell. Sometimes he dares kiss her on the lips. More often, the door is swiftly closed, and he follows her up the stairs. I watch bereft and imagine all sorts of things. It's all regular as clockwork. He's never late. He always wears the same cycling outfit. He's not a Lycra sort of man. His new helmet, with an edging of red around the black, is as far as he'll go to appear professional. I've worked out lots about him from just watching. But then I know a whole lot more about him too. Because he's my husband. Keeping a secret life from an unsuspecting wife takes not a little cunning. But I'm no longer an unsuspecting wife. The question is, will I be able to keep the knowledge of what I know from my husband. . . until I decide what I'm going to do.