Just Say the Word “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife!” declared the …

JUST CALL OUT

I declare you husband and wife! proclaimed the registrar with grand ceremony, then suddenly choked mid-sentence, coughing fitfully, gasping for breath.
Well, thats hardly a good omen, my mother muttered, frowning at the registrars awkward splutter.
The guests stirred and whispered, their voices swirling like leaves in an autumn wind. Charlotte and Iyoung bride and groomexchanged anxious glances. We were both only eighteen, really just children masquerading as adults. Our wedding had sprung up like mushrooms after rain, swift and unexpected. Charlotte brought her own strange dowry.
Two months from now, wed welcome a child neither of us had planned. The wedding dress had been hurriedly rented, shoes borrowed from Charlottes dearest friend. Oddly enough, many years later, I ended up sharing a fleeting affair with that same friend.
But for now, we wandered in youth and happiness.
One afternoon, Charlotte and I strolled down the avenue under a drowsy English sky. I held my young wifes waist as if she might float away. Then out of nowhere, a peculiar little man sidled up and croaked to me, Hold tight to your lady, mate, or someonell whisk her away
He spat his warning and shuffled off, lost in his own logic. We laughed and let the moment slip from memory like a half-remembered joke. Life stretched endlessly aheadwho could possibly pull us apart? Let them try.
My friend, whod played witness at our wedding, once chided me:
Richard, havent you ever thought of picking a prettier wife? Theres a sea of gorgeous women out there!
I waved him away.
Theyre probably waiting for you, mate
And indeed, they did. He married four times, each bride more clever and beautiful than the last.
Our daughter, Alice, was born with the first autumn leaves.
Soon after, I was drafted for service, sent far from the comforts of home. I missed Charlotte and Alice desperately. Charlotte sent a photo once. I kept it beneath my pillow, hoping her face would come alive in my dreams.
Returning to the barracks one evening, I found the photo of Charlotte exposed on my locker. Someone had doodled all over it, scrawling obscenities. In a rage, I lunged at my bunkmate and battered him almost senseless. That earned me a stint in the guardhouse, and the photo had to be torn and tossed away. At least he was punished for it.
I returned from service hardened, carrying a simmering anger toward Charlotte. I’d convinced myself that a young woman left alone must surely find herself a lover. Chances were, Charlotte had cheated during my two years away.
The woman I saw after my absence was not the timid mouse whod waved me off but a stunning, self-assured figure, brimming with fierce, magnetic energy.
Are you Charlotte? I can hardly recognise you, I whispered in awe by her ear.
Pride overflowed inside me. But there and then, doubt crept in: Maybe Im not the only man in Charlottes life. Where theres honey, there are always flies. Just in case, I acquired my own mistress, to soften any possible betrayal.
In three months, word of my exploits reached Charlotte. I barely managed to convince her not to divorce me. Her verdict was simple:
Well, Richard, dont expect forgiveness now
Charlotte burned all my army letters, once cherished in her wooden box; now, flames. She barred me from her bed indefinitely. Dinner invitations ceased. Our conversations shrank to household trivia.
To sum up, I gave grief for a day, then wept for a year. Eventually, I took Charlotte and Alice for an extra holiday beyond the usual summer break. Wine, fruit, sea air, sun, and wind It was there we made our peace.
Back home, I ended things with my illicit companion.
For seven years, Charlotte and I lived quietly, as if in a gentle retreat. Yet something seemed missingperhaps she yearned for continental romance.
At my workplace lurked a merry spiritBarry, the heart of every occasion. A superb listener, Barry absorbed everyones woes, be it about dreadful wives, wicked mothers-in-law, or politics. Barry gave sound advice, his laughter echoing through our halls.
Why not invite Barry to Charlottes birthday? I thought. “Hell brighten the evening.”
If only I knew how it would end
Barry arrived with his wife, and on that night, the table sparkled with his wit and jokes. Charlotte glowed, offering food and laughter, chirping like a nightingale. The party was a dream, but a month later, hell descended upon both our families.
Barrys wife rang me in panic:
Richard, surely you know our spouses are seeing each other? Tell your darling wife to keep her hands off! We have two small children.
I was obliviouscould Charlotte really be so reckless in revenge for my past sins?
No need for the full nightmare here. Barrys wife stalked Charlotte everywhere, vowing to overdose and make a spectacle of her own demise. I locked Charlotte in the flat, unplugged the phone, threatened divorce. All in vain. Folk say love, fire, and coughing cant be concealed.
Thats when I turned to Charlottes closest friend for advice.
She cut me down quickly: Richard, its real love. Charlotte wont return. The path to her is closed for you.
Grief rolled over me like fog. I lingered at her friends home for half a year, soothed by her warmth.
Charlotte and Barry married, lost in their own paradise, blind to the world. They seemed to breathe as one, sharing a single heartbeat. I hated them both thenwished to howl and tear my hair. How could I lose Charlotte? Seems happiness and misery travel in the same carriage.
They say time heals. I dont believe it. My wound lingered, delicate as the first ice, aching often. Friends delicately found me a new bridea beauty. I married quickly, before changing my mind. Seventeen years together now. I try to play at happiness, holding onto hope even when its gone.
But if anyone descended into the crypts of my battered soul, theyd find Charlotte, forever waiting. Would you call outSometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, I reach for the phone and almost dial Charlottes number, half-dreaming she might answer with her old musical laugh. But I never let myself make the call. Instead, I lie still, listening to the breathing beside me, measuring the softness of another womans loyalty. We fill our days with routine and rituals, raising children, tending gardens, keeping all the wounds hidden.

But years bend us. One afternoon, rain streaking the windows, I find an old photograph wedged in a bookCharlotte at seventeen, squinting into sunlight, her hair windblown and wild. I smile, feeling that ache, the echo of her voice calling out. Perhaps we were too young, too foolish, but somehow, love survives in the aftermath. It lingers in lost letters, torn photos, and soft regrets.

I realize now that life never carves out clear villains or saints; were all wanderers, chasing that first impossible joy. Charlottes laughter still haunts my dreams, kind and distant. And whenever the wind rattles the house or autumn leaves spiral past, I recognize the promise: happiness belongs to the bold, but memory belongs to those who do not let go.

So if you ever find yourself yearning, just call out. The heart will answersometimes in silence, sometimes in song. That is enough.