I have something to tell you, my husband says, but I’m not listening. I’m trying to shift the stone lodged in my mountain boot. Rain has slicked the narrow path covered in last year’s crushed leaves and we’re on a steep descent.

More words tumble out of his mouth: didn’t mean anything, didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t think, didn’t blah blah blah.

I watch him speak and wonder how long ago he stopped being the man I love. What I feel is as hard and as true as the stone I cannot dislodge. I raise my arm to shush him, to stem this flow of didn’ts and didn’ts and didn’ts. I have my own list. All the times I didn’t protest when he worked late, the art classes I didn’t take because he didn’t help with the kids, the tedious socializing that helped build his career. Up goes my arm and whoosh go my boots. Treacherous path. Treacherous husband. I slide and slide and collide into boulders, sharp edged branches, stinging nettles. I thump into the bark of a fallen tree. All goes black.

Rewind.

I have something to tell you, my husband says. This time we are settling in for a romantic dinner. I’ve laid the dining table, the one we rarely use, and cooked his favourite meal. It’s my apology for all the nights I’ve been away, all the children’s appointments I’ve forgotten, all the travel I’ve done for my art exhibitions. I’m serving the lamb chops, fragrant with crushed cumin and fennel seed, smiling as I pop open a bottle of champagne, when words tumble out of his mouth: you’re never around, you never want sex anymore, you never appreciate, you never blah blah blah. And when I raise my arm to shush him, to stem this flow of never and never and never, I lose my footing on a slick of wine that I never saw coming. All goes black.

Rewind.

I have something to tell you, my husband-to-be whispers. I’ve snuck out of my sister’s house to make out with him under the majestic elm tree. Tradition says it’s bad luck to see the bride the night before, but we don’t believe in any of that. We’re young and gorgeous and in love, him with cropped hair waxed this way and that, me with my gypsy skirt and flouncy blouse. Great, I say, but I’ve got something to ask you first. And this time, we talk and talk and talk about careers and kids and taking turns. We argue and laugh and cry about all the what ifs that could come our way. We kiss and kiss and kiss into the small hours, until the grass is bent with dew, until the dawn is pinking the sky and we can’t rewind any further.

Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for awards and shortlisted for the Bath, Bridport, Oxford and WestWord prizes for flash fiction. She’s also a contributing editor at New Flash Fiction Review. Cole lives with her girlfriend and has two children. You can find her on bluesky @nomad-sw18.bsky.social.