I grew disillusioned with my chosen one and left her right after visiting her home.
Thirteen years I was married, and my ex-wife was never what you’d call a classic beauty. In her youth, she bewitched me with her fragility, a certain delicate softness that clung to the soul. She wasn’t dazzling, but she knew how to carry herself. Fancy lace lingerie she indulged in, bathroom shelves groaning under creams, perfumes, oils, and cosmetics—it was her world. Bottles and jars were so numerous I lost count, yet she always smelled like a blooming garden. We both earned well, lived comfortably, and she could afford these little luxuries.
She never slouched around the house in worn-out rags—her hair was always set, her clothes pressed. I liked women like that: polished, aware of their worth. But fate had other plans—five years ago, we divorced, and since then, my life became a string of fleeting encounters. Women came and went, leaving no trace, until I met her—Clarissa. She seemed from another world: beautiful, magnetic, with fine features and a confident stride. She led a team of men at work with such ease, I couldn’t help but admire her. I decided: I couldn’t let her slip away.
It started with idle chats, but soon I invited her to my flat in Manchester. I didn’t cook—ordered dinner from a restaurant—but set the table myself, pouring heart into it. The evening was magic: wine, laughter, lingering glances. Clarissa stayed the night, and soon she was a regular. But the more she visited, the more her behavior grated on me. She never brought a makeup bag, spare clothes, or fresh underwear. In the morning, she looked dreadful: smudged mascara, tangled hair, a weary face. After a shower, she’d pull on the same clothes from yesterday, and it stung my eyes. To be honest, I was bitterly disappointed.
One day, Clarissa invited me over. I braced for chaos—her habits at my place hinted at carelessness. But when I stepped into her flat, I was stunned. Inside wasn’t clutter—it was… something else. Freshly done up, stylish, expensive, with sleek furniture and modern touches. It screamed taste and prosperity. But when I washed my hands in the bathroom, my heart sank. Only a lonely bottle of shampoo and a tube of toothpaste sat on the shelf. Nothing else. No hint of indulgence, no whisper of self-care. I thought of my ex—her shelves bowed under bottles, her bathroom fragrant with scents, and to me, that was femininity, self-respect. Here—emptiness.
Clarissa had just turned thirty-three, yet she seemed unbothered about preserving youth. Didn’t wrinkles, fading skin trouble her? I stood, staring at that barren shelf, feeling disappointment swell inside. But the real blow came on the balcony. There, strung on the line, her laundry dried—plain grey, without a speck of elegance. She caught my glance and shrugged, “Comfort’s what matters to me.” Those words sealed it.
Maybe at forty-two, I’ve grown too particular. Maybe my habits, my expectations—are just baggage I can’t shake. But I knew: I couldn’t live with a woman like this. We parted—I ended it. Walked away without looking back, heavy-hearted but certain I couldn’t bear this void where I’d hoped to find beauty and care. Clarissa was radiant on the outside, but inside her home, I saw only indifference—and that killed whatever might have been.