I’m calling off the wedding
Youre talking about the seating plan again, he said, putting down his fork. Were on holiday, Olivia. By the sea. Just look around.
She did. The restaurants terrace was suspended almost above the water. The waves below lapped quietly, a fishermans boat flickered its tiny light far off on the horizon. The sky was a deep navy, almost violet, and the first stars were showing through. It was beautiful. She saw it. She noticed everything.
I just wanted to check about Aunt Mary, she said gently. She cant sit next to Victor, you know that they havent spoken since 98.
Liv.
What?
Youre a bore.
She didnt realise hed actually said it aloud. For a moment she thought shed misheard. At the neighbouring table, a couple laughedweirdly carefree and loud. Their laughter filled up the gap that had fallen between them.
What did you say?
I said, youre a bore. James picked up his wine glass, took a sip, and looked at hernot angry, almost calm. Which somehow felt worse. We arrived three days ago. Three days! And you still havent relaxed. Youre glued to your phone, always running through numbers, always talking about this wedding the menu, budget, flowers, Aunt Mary Liv, the wedding isnt for four months.
Thats why we need to sort out the details now. While we can think about it calmly.
Calmly. He gave a short laugh. You call this calm.
Olivia folded up her napkin and laid it down. Her hands were steady. She liked them that way.
James, someone has to keep track of these things. The venue costs a fortune. We need to confirm the caterers three months in advance. The photographers already asked for a deposit.
I understand that.
Then why call me a bore?
He didnt reply immediately. Instead he watched the water for a while. Then he said, Because youve forgotten how to just sit. To just eat. To just look at the sea. Youre never really here. Youre always somewhere else in lists, on spreadsheets, in ancient family squabbles from 1998.
Theyre not ancient, James, its your family.
Liv, let me ask for one thing. Put the phone away. Drink your wine. Look at this sky. Just for tonight.
She did put her phone away. She picked up the glass and took a sip. The wine was good, dry, with a pleasant bitterness. There was still laughter at the next table.
They sat in silence for a good five minutes. Then she couldnt help herself.
But about the menu she began, Theres still the problem with the fish dishes. Sarahs wife is allergic, and if we do a buffet, we really have to warn the
James stood up.
Im going for a walk, he said.
Dinners not finished.
I need some air, he repeated. Just a walk.
She watched him stride off the terracebroad shoulders, easy gait, an untucked pale shirt. He always looked as if nothing could touch him. Maybe it was true. Maybe the problems were only hers.
Olivia finished her wine, asked for the bill, paid with her card. She went back to their room. Showered. Lay down. Listened, restless, to the sea beyond the window.
James didnt return.
She realised it sometime around two in the morning, waking up to the empty half of the bed. She sent him a text, then another. The phone stayed silent. She got up and went out onto the balcony. Down by the pool there were still a few people wandering around, music from somewhere, someones laughter. The warm air smelt of salt and flowers. The night was beautiful: like a glossy postcard.
Back in the room, she couldnt sleep for a long time.
In the morning, a message finally arrived. Gone to Whitby with some guys I met on the promenade. Back tonight. Dont wait. No explanation. No apology. Just a statement, like a train timetable.
She read it three times. Then put her phone facedown.
She made coffee from the capsule machine on the bedside table, which growled like a lawnmower. She drank it standing at the window. The sea looked grey today, though the sky was starting to blue up. Early morning by the sea always had a drowsy feel, she thought, like someone who hadnt quite woken up.
Olivia was thirty-four. She worked as a financial analyst for a medium-sized London logistics company. The job wasnt a passion, but it was familiar and dependable. She valued stability. She could plan ahead, spot pitfalls where others saw only opportunity. It was just part of her. Without even thinking, shed brought that same skillset into her personal life.
Shed met James three years ago. He was a musiciannot a professional, not in the sense of earning a living from music. By day, he worked at an advertising firm, wrote jingles and soundtracks for commercials, but his heart was in music. At weekends he played with a band at a tiny club, wrote songs, listened to odd recordings in his headphones, could stop dead on the street because a lamplight or the flutter of pigeons on a roof caught his ear. He had a gift for wonder. That was what had drawn her in.
On their first date, hed been twenty minutes late. She was ready to leave. He rushed in, flustered, holding a bouquet of slightly squashed daisies, apologisinghed walked instead of taking the Tube, and got lost after following a busker for a while. She should have been annoyed. Instead she laughed.
The first six months had been light and exciting. He came up with spontaneous plans, and sometimes she even agreed. It wasnt her style, but that was why it was fun. Then they moved in together. Gradually, the lightness grew uneven.
James never paid the bills on time. Not because he was stingy, he just forgot. He didnt notice if they were out of food. Rent payments always needed prompting. Shed told him three times about claiming back tax on expenses; he never got around to it. If they didnt book tickets well in advance, they ended up with the last train. If neither made a doctors appointment, neither went. All of that defaulted to her. Not because he refusedit simply didnt occur to him. But she noticed. And somewhere along the line, it became hers alone to organise.
She didnt really complain. Or, if she did, it was only in passing, and James would reply, Youre right, sorry, Ill do better. Hed tryfor a bit. Then things slipped back to how they were before. There was no malice in it. He just worked differently. He lived for today, and she always had her eye on the day after tomorrow.
It was James who proposed. An unexpected, touching moment: December, walking through snowy Greenwich Park, and suddenly he announced, Will you marry me? No ring, no showjust words. Hed bought the ring a week later. It was beautiful, he had good taste. Olivia said yes. She was happy and a little scared, but mostly happy.
Then wedding planning began. And, just like everything else, it landed on her lap. James loved to discuss ideas: live band instead of a DJ, a rustic theme, a wedding cake shaped like a guitar. His ideas were sometimes brilliant. But it was she who compared venue prices, read endless caterer reviews, made the guestlist taking into account ancient family feuds, double-checked allergy info, juggled deposits and deadlines. All on top of her day job. Even on weekends. Even on holiday, it turned out.
Standing with her lukewarm coffee, Olivia reflected on it all. Strangely calm. Normally, shed respond to big crises fastwith plans, actions, decisions. Now, that automatic mechanism felt stuck.
She pressed the button on her phone until the screen went black. For the first time in years, shed powered it off for reasons other than cinema or flights.
She opened the wardrobe and studied her clothes. Practical linen trousers shed brought for walks. Sensible sandals. A light jacket for evenings. All logical, carefully chosen. But also, a silk terracotta dressthin straps, flowing at the hemwhich shed thrown in at the last minute with no real reason. Shed bought it on a whim months ago from a little boutique. Completely impracticalslightly too long, easy to trip over, creased at the sight of a chair, required special shoes. Shed packed it and had no idea why.
Now, she understood.
Olivia put on the dress. Found heeled sandals in her bagher just in case shoes. Put on lipstick. Chose a little clutch for her purse, passport and some cash. Left the room.
Reception was manned by a smiling young man. Did she need a taxi? No, shed like to get to the next town over. He explained there was an hourly bus from the main square, or a twenty-minute taxi ride. She thanked him and walked to the square. The bus wasnt long.
The town was called Hawkinge, smaller and quieter than their seaside village. Narrow streets, pale houses with red-tiled roofs, cats on almost every windowsill, the smell of coffee and fresh baked bread. Hardly any tourists. It was nice.
She walked, with no aim beyond the walk itself. The dress snagged on the uneven pavement, and she held it up, unfussed. The sun was warm but not fierce. In the distance, a town clock chimed ten.
Down a side alley, a tiny gallery caught her eye. No sign, just a door open, a faint smell of oil paint drifting out. A wooden board, painted Studio. Open.
Olivia lingered. Peeped in. The room was small, bright from a high window. Paintings everywherebig and smallmostly seascapes, the same coast in every kind of light. A woman, seventy if a day, sat at a solid table, writing in a notebook. She had short grey hair, wide round glasses, a childishly young smile.
Come in, she called, and, seeing Olivias hesitation, switched to English with the ghost of an accent. I dont bite.
Im from England, Olivia replied in a voice more timid than she intended. I speak a little English.
Littles enough, the lady grinned. Im Frances. This is my studio. Have a look.
Olivia wandered about, looking at the paintings. The painted sea was living and honest, not postcard-pretty. One stormy scene: dark water, low clouds, one white sail way off to the side. Another, flat calm: water smooth as glass, sky reflected so perfectly she couldnt tell where one ended and the other began.
Like it? Frances asked.
Very much. Especially that onethe flat calm.
Why that?
Olivia thought. Because here you cant tell the boundarysea and sky are merged. It doesnt frighten me. Its beautiful.
Frances regarded her with interest.
You here alone?
Today, yes.
Sit. She nodded at an old chair. Fancy coffee?
Olivias instinct was to say, Dont go to any trouble, but instead she said, Yes, please.
While Frances made coffee at her little stove, Olivia sat, hands round her knees, gaze flicking between the paintings. In the studio, it was so quietthe city type of silence had background noise, always. But this was real silence, where she could hear her own breathing.
Frances brought over two tiny cups.
On holiday? she asked.
Yes. At the hotel in Brackenhurst.
With your husband?
Fiancé.
And he?
He left, said Olivia bluntly. Met some people last nightwent off to Whitby for the day.
Frances didnt say Oh, what a shame or Hell be back soon, just sipped her coffee and nodded.
And you decided to come here.
I just took the bus. No plan.
A good decision.
They sat quietly for a moment. Olivia cradled the warm cup between her hands.
Painting long? she asked.
All my life. I taught for forty years. At school, then university. Retired, opened this place. Frances smiled softly. Thought Id be painting for myself, but people keep turning up. Watching, talking. I dont mind.
Do many just come in and chat?
Often. Tourists. Especially those who are alone. Frances was watching Olivia closely. When youre alone, you notice thingsan open door, the smell of paint, true quiet.
Olivia didnt know what to say.
You had a row last night? Frances probed.
He called me a bore, Olivia admitted. She was surprised at herself. It sounded flat, unemotional, like a fact.
Why?
For talking about wedding details at dinner.
Frances was silent.
Are you a bore? she asked.
Olivia wanted to say, Of course not, but hesitated.
I dont know, she said finally. I just do whats necessary. If you dont do things, nothing happens. Nothing happens on its own.
True, Frances nodded. But Ive noticed one thing. When one half of a couple does everything and the other does nothing, the everything half gets angry. Not right away. Over time. And not at themat themselves, for letting it happen.
Olivia put her empty cup down.
Im not angry.
No, Frances agreed. Youve come here in a beautiful dress and turned off your phone. Thats not anger. Thats something else.
Outside, a woman passed with a basket. She nodded at Frances, who nodded back.
Neighbour, Frances explained. Every morning, same route, to the market. Thirty years.
That sounds dull, Olivia ventured.
Or dependable, Frances countered. Depends how you look at it.
Another pause. Frances got up and went to a corner easel where a half-finished canvas waited. Another seascape, this from a cliff, rocks, distant horizon.
Ive been stuck on this for three weeks, she sighed. The horizons too sharpboring. If I blur it, it loses air.
Olivia came over to look.
What if you left it sharp on the horizon, she suggested, but brought something to the foreground, so the viewers attention lands close before looking out to sea?
Frances studied the painting, then Olivia.
You paint?
NoIm an analyst.
But you think in images.
I think in structures. Sometimes, it looks like an image.
Frances laugheda genuine, soft laugh.
You know, when I was young, I had a husbanda good man, kind. But he couldnt hold more than one thing in mind at once. I organised everythingfinances, children, our shows, his events. He said I thought too much. I believed him. I thought I needed to relax, to be simpler.
And did you?
No, Frances replied. It was just who I was. But for years I thought it was a flaw. She fell quiet. He died twenty years agoheart failure. I remembered something he said a year before. Said, If it werent for you, Id be lost. Youre my shoreline.
Olivia looked at the painting.
Thats beautiful.
Maybe. But I wonderedis it good, being someones shore? Shores dont move. Shores stand. People come back to them or leave when they wish.
Again, quiet.
Did you have children? Olivia asked.
Two. Grown up, moved away. My sons up north, daughter in France. They visit for holidays.
So youre not lonely?
Sometimes. Frances shrugged. But theres different kinds of loneliness. You can feel lonely and sad, or you can have a quiet space where you finally hear your own voice.
Olivia looked up.
Did you ever remarry?
No. I nearly did, a few years after. Nice fellow. But I realised Id have to be the shore again. And I was tired. I wanted, finally, to set out myself. Just a bit.
She returned to her desk, picked up her notebook.
You staying long?
Im not sure, Olivia said honestly. Probably leave the day after tomorrow. My flights in two days.
Come by tomorrow. Ill show you the little market around the cornertheres an old potter, makes amazing things.
Olivia nodded.
Ill come, she promised.
She left around noon. The sun was high, shadows tiny. A scooter zipped down the narrow street, a cat lazily watched it go.
She walked back to the bus stop, thinkingnot about James, but about the shore. Being someones shore didnt make you good or bad. It was just a part you played. The real question: had you chosen it yourself, or just ended up there because no one else would?
On the bus, she watched the coastline come and go behind hedgerows. Now the sea looked vibrant blue, tiny whitecaps scudding along. Changed since morning.
She got back to the hotel just before two. Reception told her Mr. Russell had returned an hour ago and was by the pool.
She changed in the room. The practical linen trousers, a plain white tee. She drifted down to the pool.
James was in a lounger with his phone. When he saw her, he sat up.
Hey, he said. Whered you go?
The next village.
By yourself?
Yes.
He hesitated.
Listen, Im sorry. About last night. About what I said. It was rude.
It was, she nodded.
I didnt want to hurt you. It just built up. I thought we were coming to relax, and instead He trailed off. Its still work with you. Even when youre not at work, youre working. The weddings just another project.
She studied him. He was handsomehed always beenthat hadnt altered. Tanned, charmingly dishevelled, with that airiness shed once found so attractive.
James, she said. Can I ask you something? Honestly?
Anything.
In three years together, have you ever paid the rent without being reminded?
His brow furrowed.
Well sometimes
Not once. I checked. Its always me reminding you. Always me doing the transfer because youve forgotten.
That doesnt mean
Wait. Im not done. Did you ever make a doctors appointment yourself? Buy groceries just because you noticed the fridge was empty, not because I left a list?
Olivia, these are little things.
To you, little. To me, every day. She kept her voice soft and steady. You dream up ideas for the wedding. Live band, rustic theme, guitar-shaped cake. Lovely. But who compared the venues, who called the caterers, who checked the contracts, who remembered Sarahs wife has a seafood allergy?
You took charge of it, Liv.
Because if I dont, no one will. Its not by choice. Its necessity.
James stood, paced the pool, then slumped back down.
Youre right. I could help more. But you wont let me. You do everything. You dont know how not to.
Maybe I dont know how. But the fact is, neither do you. You cant hold grown-up things in your mind. I cant let them go. She paused. We thought it would balance itself out. But it didnt. It just stacked up. On me.
He was silent.
You didnt come back last night, she said softly.
I texted.
Yes. You texted: Back tonight, dont wait. Were on holiday, James. Together. And you went off to another town with strangers because I wanted to talk about seating plans.
I needed a breather.
What about me? Her tone shifted, not louder but sharper. When do I get to breathe? Three yearsthree years Ive been planning, counting, reminding, paying, arranging. Even on holiday, Im sorting the wedding because if I dont… in September therell be no venue, no caterer, no photographer.
James slumped in his seat.
I dont see the point of this conversation, Liv.
I know you dont. And that is the point.
She picked up her towel.
Im going for a swim.
She could feel him watching as she walked away, but she didnt turn back.
The sea was warm. She swam further out than usual, flipped onto her back and floated, staring at the clear sky. Children shouted on the sand.
She thought of Frances. The shore. The fact that the shore doesnt move.
She hadnt moved for three years. Shed stayed put.
That evening, they dined together, quietly. James tried small talkstories about Whitby, the guys hed met, artists from Berlin touring with no plan, stopping where they liked. Now thats living, he said, smiling, not realising that she was watching him closely right then.
She watched and understood something very simple: this was the life he wanted. Spontaneous, unplanned, no seating charts, no allergies and deadlines. And hed chosen her, hoping that shed make that life work anywaythat so long as someone thought about the day after tomorrow, hed never have to.
He wasnt malicious. He wasnt a bad man. But he was built a certain way, and so was she. Together, in theory, they should have worked. In practice, she carried the load, and he danced.
That night, she lay awake. James slept beside her, breathing evenly. Good-looking, easy-going, never reliable James.
She stared at her ringa blue stone hed chosen himself, it really was beautifulcatching moonlight through the thin curtain.
What would things look like a year from now? Five? Would she be planning kids birthdays and school meetings while he told stories about Berlin artists living out of rucksacks? Would she be saving for a mortgage while he forgot his half? Reminding, organising, calculating, until she realised shed become a manager, not a wife?
Or would things change? People changed, didnt they?
Sometimes, she thought. But shed waited three years and seen no changes. Only intentions. Beautiful, honest intentions. Forgotten by morning.
Near dawn, she drifted off. When she woke, it was bright, James still asleep, the room quiet. She knew her answer.
Maybe shed decided in that moment by the pool. Maybe yesterday in Francess studio. Maybe three years ago, but hadnt allowed herself to know it.
She got up quietly, careful not to disturb him. She stepped out onto the balcony. The sea was drowsy, grey-blue. Far off, a little boat trailed white foam.
The shore doesnt move, she thought. But that doesnt mean it cant become water.
Back inside, she saw James stir. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.
Morning, he yawned, voice soft.
Morning, Olivia replied. James, I need to tell you something.
He propped himself up.
Whats wrong?
Im calling off the wedding.
A long pause. He stared at her, not comprehending.
What?
Im calling off the wedding, she said again. We shouldnt get married.
Liv He sat up. Is this about the other night? What I said?
No. Its not about that. Its everything.
What everything?
She stepped close, slipped the ring off her finger, pressed it into his palm. He stared at it, as if it was something foreign.
Liv, hold on. Lets talk. I know I was wrong, I
James, she said gently. Youre a wonderful person. Truly. Youre joyful, you see the beauty, you live in the moment. Thats rare and precious. She spoke slowly, picking words with care. But these past three years have been hard. Not because youre bad, but because were mismatched in how we see adult lifeyou think its an adventure that runs itself. I see it as something you answer for. Neither of us is to blame for who we are. But together, that doesnt make it easier.
We can fix it.
Weve tried for three years.
Thats not
James. She waited until he fell quiet. I dont want to spend another three years hoping youll change. I want to live. Not run someone elses life on top of my own.
He fell silent, looking down at the ring in his palm.
Are you sure? he asked at last.
Yes.
Nothing will make you change your mind?
She thought carefully.
I dont know. Maybe Im making a mistake. Maybe Ill regret it. But right now I know one thingI cant marry you. Not because I dont love you. But because she paused, because love shouldnt make you so tired.
He said nothing for a long time. At last he nodded, barely.
All right, he said quietly.
She packed her things. He sat on the bed, staring out the window as she zipped her case. Didnt interfere, didnt argue. Maybe he understood. Or maybe he just didnt know what to do with a decision like that.
At the door, she paused.
Are you staying here?
To the end of the bookingthree more days.
All right. She took up her case. Take care, James.
You too.
She left.
At reception, they helped her change her flight. The next one was four hours away. She booked a taxi to the airport, left her suitcase with the porter, wandered off to the same café where theyd eaten the first day. She ordered coffee, a croissant, sat facing the window.
She turned on her phone. It buzzed with messages: work, friends, her mum, asking about dress fabric for the bridesmaids. Olivia read them, one by one. Calmly. As if sifting through someone elses life.
She sent her mum a brief note: No wedding. Will call when I land. Im fine. Sent it. Immediately her mum rang back, but Olivia ignored it, dropping the phone back in her bag.
She finished half the croissant, no more. Not because she wasnt hungrybecause it was enough.
Outside, the world went on: a woman with a market basket. Two men chatting outside a shop. A cat stretched on a sun-warmed bench, paws forward like a tiny lion.
Olivia watched it all and felt something oddnot pain, not relief. More like silence. Like in Francess studio. The kind of silence where you can hear your own breath.
She remembered promising to go by tomorrow. Tomorrow, shed be home. She pulled out the little notebook she always carried, jotted down the studios address. Maybe shed come back someday. Not to Brackenhurst, or that hotel. But to Hawkinge. Alone.
The taxi arrived. The driver was elderly, silent, which suited her. The drive to the airport took forty minutes, the sea rolling blue on the right the whole way.
At the airport, she checked her case, cleared security, found a seat in departures. Next to her, a young woman with a child. The boy, maybe three, played with a toy car, muttering to himself. An old man sat opposite in a straw hat, snoozing. Somewhere, an announcement was made in that cheerful, musical English that makes even delays sound like a tune.
Olivia pulled out her phone. Found the caterers. Found the photographer. Found the wedding organiser, Laura, whom theyd met a few times. She sent each a short, polite message: wedding cancelled, please confirm possible refunds. Hit send.
Then she opened her wedding budget spreadsheet. Venue, flowers, dressstill only chosen, not boughtmenu, musicians, stationary. Everything, row by row, with dates and figures.
She closed the file. Then, after a pause, deleted it.
The boy dropped his toy. It rolled under a seat and he started to whimper, but the young woman scooped it up at once. He was instantly placid again, examining the car with serious attention.
Olivia watched them.
She felt a little lonely. That was the truth. Not hurt, not afraid, just lonelylike the feeling when you put down something heavy and your arms still ache, but the weights gone.
The boarding call sounded.
She rose, slung her bag over her shoulder, queued with the rest. Someone aheadher age maybe, in a bold polka-dot dress, large hat in handchatted on her phone, grinning, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder.
Yes, all fine! Yes, travelled alone, so what? It was lovely. Ill tell you all about it. Love you!
She put her phone away and glanced at Olivia, smiling.
First time abroad by myself, she confided readily. The kids thought I shouldnt, my husband couldnt get time off, but I just went. Im sixty-two, you know. Thought Id be scared. But it was marvellous.
Marvellous, Olivia repeated.
Are you alone too?
Yes.
Going home?
Yes.
Good, said the woman, with that cheery, illogical certainty. Home is always goodand sometimes, not-home is good too. As long as its your own choice.
The queue moved. Olivia boarded, found her window seat.
The plane filled up. A man sat next to her and promptly buried himself in a newspaper. Perfect. She wasnt in the mood for conversation.
They took off. Olivia watched the coast fall away below, the sea shrinking to a ribbon, the hills and towns, then nothing but clouds.
She leaned back, shut her eyes.
She knew what awaited at home: Mum, with questions; her friend Kate, saying I knew it, I told you so; colleagues, oblivious and tactful; a flat she and James shared, and a decisionwho would stay, who would go. It would all have to be dealt with.
But right now, ten thousand metres high, in the space between what was and what would be, she hovered in suspension. Neither here nor there.
And in that interval, it was so, so quiet.
She remembered Francess paintingsea and horizon blurred. Frances couldnt decide whether to keep the horizon sharp or not. Sharp was boring; blurred, you lost all the air.
Olivia had said: add something to the foreground; anchor the eye.
Maybe that was the lessondont always stare to the horizon. Look at whats close: today. The coffee, the half-eaten croissant. The boy with the toy car. The sixty-two-year-old in a polka dot dress, whod flown alone and found it was all right.
She didnt know if shed made the right choice. Really didnt. Perhaps in six months shed regret it. Perhaps shed be glad. Life never follows the plan. She, of all people, knew that.
But she knew one thing: right now, it wasnt heavy.
The feeling was so unfamiliar, she almost checked for pain, like prodding a bruise to test if it still hurt. It didnt.
The plane sped for home. Beyond the window, a sea of white cloud. The man rustled his paper. Somewhere a child was wailing at the back.
Olivia opened her notebook, found Frances’s address, and wrote beneath: Come back. One day. Alone.
She closed the notebook and slipped it in her bag.
She looked out the window.
For a second the clouds parted and, far below, she glimpsed fields, green and brown, striped with silvery roads. Tiny, beautiful.
Then the clouds closed.
A flight attendant passed with the trolley, asking, Tea or coffee?
Coffee, please, said Olivia.
With milk?
No, just black.
She took the cup and warmed her hands. Small, simple comfort.
A few rows ahead, she saw the woman in polka dots hat parked above her seatoutrageous, festive, delightfully impractical.
Olivia thought of her own dress, the silk terracotta one, lying rumpled in her suitcase. Shed take it home. She wouldnt shove it in the back of the cupboard. Shed wear it again, some time.
Thered be an occasion.
The coffee was mediocrethats always the way with airplanes. She drank it slowly, sipped and watched the clouds, thought how chilly it must be in London that evening, and not to forget her jacket before she left the airport.
Then thought she would forget. And that nothing bad would come of it.
The plane flew on. Clouds stretched out inexorably below. Down there were fields and roads and towns, and people, each with their own story, case, and secret reason for flying today in this direction.
Olivia shut her eyes.
At this moment, she was all right.
Not happy. Not calm. Not sure. Merely all right. No reason, no plan, owing nothing and meaning nothing.
Simply all right, as you are when you finally do something thats just your own.
The attendant came around to collect cups. Olivia handed hers over.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“About two more hours,” the steward replied.
“Thank you.”
She laid back. The clouds brightened. Or perhaps it only seemed so.
Two hours. Time to sleep, or sit, or think, or simply not think at all.
For the first time in years, she had no idea what shed do for the next two hours.
And that, too, was all right.
